


So this is Sisyphus

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Canon, F/M, Family, Gen, Redemption, healing the Big Four, spoilers through S2E9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Aaron saves Miles, the three Mathesons and Bass set off on a journey to Mexico to make amends with each other and seek out their new places in the world. To summarize Camus, the struggle itself is enough; one must imagine Sisyphus happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let Me Be Your River Styx

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at a post S2E9 speculative fic - but rather than speculating on what I think will happen, I'll just explore what may be possible with the most interesting consequences to me. Romantic relationships are not the focus, though I do follow what I see as canon at this point (MilesxRachel and Charlie appears to have a crush on Bass). There is no major character death, despite what it seems!
> 
> I hope my muse cooperates. Season 2 battered it pretty badly. This fic incorporates literary allusions to various mythologies, which I'll try to note in the end notes. For instance, title/summary taken from:
> 
>  **The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.** – Albert Camus, _The Myth of Sisyphus_

Bass is shrieking Miles’ name into the crusty wind. Sand bites Miles’ corneas, blinding him, though he has the sense that his eyes are actually closed. Sealed like coffins. Bass’ voice is inhumanly shrill; he must be wounded. _Where is the rest of our fucking unit?_ Miles wonders.

Now Ben is grasping Miles’ hand – sweaty from nerves, sticky from Oreo cream filling. Miles tries to extract his fingers, but Ben clings painfully to them, holding back his little brother from the oak casket. Their mother’s in there. Miles just wants to see her one last time. He doesn’t care if her lips look blue and that the vein in her forehead is grotesquely prominent against transluscent skin.

Doc Arora has his fingers in the general’s abdominal wound – _inside_ of Miles’ body cavity, rooting around, looking for foreign objects. Pulpous, writhing pain without boundaries or end. Miles shouldn’t be able to feel this; no one should have to feel another man’s hands inside of his torso.

“Miles. Come back. Wake up, Miles!” Charlie’s voice, of course. _Charlie!_ Christ, he can’t leave her. But where is he going? The pain undulates into panic. A blinding flash, that bristle of sand in his eyes again. Wait – is he looking for Charlie or for Bass in the desert? Who is it that needs him again?

Gentle lips touch his forehead. Awake to the harsh light of day. Miles is staring into wide, round eyes, the color of truth – but of course, there is no such color. They are merely startling, transparent blue. Charlie.

“That’s it, Miles.”

Her voice isn’t right. It’s crackly with worry or anguish. Miles instantly flashes back to the dank tunnel stairs beneath Philadelphia and the worst moment in what had proven an astonishingly miserable life – when he'd almost lost Charlie. _I need you to open your eyes._ But she’d come back to him.

Miles’ right hand feels dead except for minute tingling around the hair follicles. His fever hasn’t broken; he’s freezing. His teeth begin to rattle against one another like a metal gate in the wind.

He spasmodically reaches down his body with his left hand and feels…nakedness. He’s not wearing a stitch of clothes, and he appears to be alone with Charlie in a strange room. What the hell is going on?

“My c-c-clothes?” he chatters. 

Charlie, who is perched stiffly on the edge of his mattress, removes her hand from where she’s been smoothing his hair. “Um…your body sort of shut down. Mom’s rinsing them out for you.”

Flames of humiliation shoot to his cheeks. So he shat himself. And Charlie got to help clean him up. He closes his eyes against the indignity of dying. Because that’s what this is now. He should already be gone, but he’s hung around to torture Charlie like his mother had done to him and Ben, fading from cancer for 3 long years.

Charlie grasps his good hand. “It’s okay, Miles. Stay with me, all right? Aaron’s trying to…to find the nanites, whatever that means. He says they can heal you and Cynthia.”

“Cynthia?” he croaks.

Charlie nods and bites her bottom lip in empathy. “She’s dead.”

“Bass?”

“Getting water. He’ll be back in a minute.”

A violent shiver, and Charlie tries to pull the meager covers closer about his neck.

“I’m sorry you’re so cold,” she whispers, her eyes clouding with dread.

 _Shit._ He doesn’t want Charlie – who’s watched every person she’s ever loved perish – to have to watch him die too. It’s not right. She’s too good for this bullshit world.

“Charlie.” He garbles her name, which worries him, like his voice will be the first thing to fail, proceeding the shutdown of his lungs and his heart. He tries to tighten his fingers in hers but fails to increase the pressure. “I want…I don’t want you to have to w-w-watch.”

“I’m not leaving you.” Tears are welling up in the pristine eyes.

He wants so badly to tell her how much she’s meant to him – how her goodness has migrated into every loathsome corner of his soul to wage heroic battle with his ugliness – not always successful, but a valiant effort. How do you tell someone that?

So it comes out in the worst possible way. _Maggie’s_ way. “You saved me.”

“No! Do _not_ say that. You promised you wouldn’t go.”

“No choice,” he whispers faintly. She collapses onto his chest, shaking silently.

He hears a _thunk_ and a _slosh_ and then Bass’s open, familiar face is hovering woozily above him. 

“Miles, hold on, goddammit,” Bass demands, lightly slapping Miles’ clammy cheek.

“Connor Bennett…Puerto Peñasco,” Miles mumbles at him. Miles is almost done now. Bass tries to ask him something, but his words fuse with the air and lose their sound. Miles attempts to mouth at him, _I’m sorry for all the shit between us_ , but when he opens his lips, foam comes out.

…

Charlie can hear when his heartbeat starts to weaken and when it stops. Oddly, she ceases weeping then. Her cheek is plastered by tears to his matted chest hair. She feels Bass’ hand on her shoulder and part of her wants to shake it off – wants to blame Monroe, because hasn’t he been the cause of everyone she’s loved dying? But this time it isn’t him. And she’s too weary to move. She kisses Miles’ chest in goodbye and stays there, resting.

Does she believe in some kind of afterlife? She supposes. After all, she’d seen her father on some other plane. So not knowing whom else to ask, she implores: _Dad, take care of Miles._

After what seems a lifetime, she finally lifts up her head and ends up closer to Bass' face than she was prepared for. His crystal blue eyes are filled with tears. He gets up abruptly and walks to the corner.

Bass’ brain is racing in time with his pulse. He feels control slipping. _I’ve lost Miles. Okay, I knew this was coming. Okay. Fuck._ He’s got to stop what comes next – the bitterness, the rage. Miles has given him what he needs. _Connor_. That’s his son’s name. And what the hell is Puerto Peñasco? Well, Rachel will know. He puts his hands on the ugly mustard wallpaper and pushes until his fingertips turn white. _Control. Control. You want Connor to want to be around you, don’t you? Miles is gone now. There is no family there. You already knew that._

As the door to the shack flings open, Bass whips around drawing both swords into an X. It’s Aaron – sweaty, fat, fucking Aaron – too little, too late. But…the fuck? His girl is with him. And she’s very much alive.

Rachel’s with them, too, and hurls herself at Charlie and Miles’ – _get to used saying it_ – body. Every time Bass lays eyes on Rachel he feels some abhorrent concoction of sickness, regret, affection, neediness. He hates her. _Maybe._ But he likes when she’s around. She knows the absolute worst in him, so there’s nowhere left to plummet.

Aaron’s yelling at the ceiling to: “heal him. I’m begging you, please heal him!”

At least Bass isn’t the craziest person he’s fallen in with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was punished for his deceit by being forever forced to roll a big rock up a hill only to watch it roll down again.
> 
> *Albert Camus' _Myth of Sisyphus_ probes the absurd, in which man searches for meaning in a world devoid of God and truth.
> 
> *The River Styx is the boundary between Earth and the Underworld in Greek mythology.
> 
> *Doc Arora is my head-canon doctor who treated Miles when he was general of the Republic.


	2. Our Very Own Sphinx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keeping the chapters short right now, because momentum cures writer's block (and I'm really busy - eep!). There are flashbacks in this story, just like in the show (but hopefully less destructive to season one canon *scoldy face*). There may be a trigger in this chapter for post-torture.
> 
> Thank you to those reading, kudosing, and reviewing! LOVE.

_13 Years after the Blackout: Independence Hall_

Rachel is lying in bed, though it must be well past noon. She’s practicing breathing without actually expanding the skin of her chest.

From her breasts to her navel is covered in blue-black, bone-deep bruises. A few of her ribs might be cracked. Yesterday was one of those days when Bass got in a mood and sent in his savage lion, Sgt. Strausser…and, always, afterward – _“Out of respect for an old friend”_ – his personal doctor. Oh she likes Doctor Arora. He’s still loyal to Miles, she can tell. In that lilting voice, he’ll reminisce about Afghanistan, where he grew up, describing the effervescent pink of the Milky Way in the immaculate desert sky, just the way Miles used to in his letters from the front. Icing her ribs last night, Arora had gently cooed to her about seekh kabab and mantu, trying to curtail her pain by making her mouth water at the thought of exotic foods. You can’t get things like that in Philly anymore - it's all potatoes and ham. She'd nodded at the doctor politely, wondering if it was possible to just quit – if you could develop such exquisite control over your body’s functions that you could order: _Heart, stop._ And it would. That would be a superpower she’d sign up for.

Bass barges in. No knock to ascertain if she’s decent. She’s just another part of his empire.

“Rachel,” he nods, curls sweaty and eyes red-rimmed. A bad sign. “I see you’re still in bed. Bit pathetic at this hour. Get up and put on a robe.”

Still pissed at her then. Yesterday, he'd gotten a lead on Miles, of all people, and wanted to know if she believed Miles would make contact with Ben after his defection. Honestly, how the hell should she know? For one thing, Miles had morphed into someone she'd barely recognized as General Matheson. And for another, if there was one enigma her keen mind had never decoded, it was the Matheson brothers’ relationship. How much had _she_ wrecked it, and how much had it always been broken?

Rachel has scarcely lifted herself up on her elbows, when Bass bites: “You fucked Miles for a long time. I want your honest guess. Do you think Miles is the kind of coward to flee somewhere far away or arrogant enough to stick around and keep an eye on things?" 

Rachel blinks in lassitude. “I think he’s an arrogant coward. Good luck with your sphinx. I hope he doesn’t eat you, before you solve his riddle.”

Bass smiles. “Remind me to take away your books. Clearly, you've been reading too much. Besides, the Sphinx was female. It’s cunts like you who like to play games. I’ll find Miles. _And_ Ben. And I’ll bring you both their heads on a plate.”

…

_The Present: Outside Willoughby_

Rachel has been staring at the sweat-soiled blankets bunched about Miles’ lifeless form, trying to convince herself to say something comforting to Charlie, who she's perched in back of. Instead she’s been unable to lift her hand to even touch her daughter’s eerily still shoulder. And of all things, she’s thinking of her captivity with Bass. Why? Just because he’s nearby like a sour stench?

Bass is eying Rachel from his own perch across the room, thinking of – not the _same_ incident – but one like it; merely one of the many. Does Rachel know how much Bass was just playing a part, the part he felt obliged to enact when Miles left? Does she realize that she'd forced him further than he'd ever intended by being so hard, so dogged? 

His eyes skip over Charlie – those emotions confuse him – and land on Aaron, who has plunked upon the floor as if in a tantrum, his girlfriend gazing down at him like if he just strains a little harder, he’ll lay a really choice turd or maybe even bring back Miles from the dead…

…which – _holy fuck_ – is exactly what happens. Not the turd, the _Miles_ , heaving and opening his eyes.

Charlie’s never seen a beach – not outside of a photograph anyway – but it’s what she’s been trying to imagine. Because Uncle Miles had once sent her a postcard from South Carolina – an otherworldly picture of white sand and the kind of tree with the spiky leaves…oh, what are those called? For some reason, this image is Miles for her, as she says goodbye and tries to let him go. She can feel her mother breathing on her shoulder and then the breath becomes an explosive puff of what Charlie realizes is astonishment, because…

Miles’ chest has inflated. Charlie gets the sudden impression that she’s blocking her mother from Miles, feels compelled to step aside and stumbles doing so, half in terror, half in confusion, because she is witnessing resurrection.  

Rachel sputters, “Miles!” and reflexively inspects his bad arm. The purple veins are no more. He unfurls his fingers and blinks at her, yanking off the old bandage. The once-battered hand is pink and new as a baby’s bum.

“How…how do you feel?” Rachel manages.

“Good.” His voice sounds strong and clear, not raspy and worn as it had for many months. In fact, Miles swings his legs off the edge of the bed, unwittingly hurling Rachel to her feet.

Miles gazes around the room and realizes only Bass is actually looking at him. Everyone else has staggered backward and turned their faces away. _Am I glowing?_ he wonders. 

“You’re not wearing any clothes, you idiot,” Bass explains, pulling a sheet from the bed and handing it to Miles.

“I’ll get your clothes! They’re drying outside,” offers Charlie, ducking away.

Weirdly, it seems retrieving his clothes requires the manpower of Charlie, Bass, Aaron, _and_ Cynthia, because in a moment, he finds himself alone with Rachel, holding the sheet about his waist.

“How long was I out?”

Rachel forces herself to breathe. “By _out_ you mean…dead? A few minutes.”

Miles looks past her for a moment. He looks younger to Rachel, at least younger than he has since Philadelphia.

“What was it like…?” she asks, quirking her eyebrow in genuine curiosity.

Miles meets her eyes again, deep molasses brown. “It was… _still_.”

He says the word like it has taken on an entirely different meaning. Then, he draws her in for an ardent kiss. The fingers of one hand entwine in the roots of her hair, callouses catching, while the other slides down her arm, exploring her shape as if for the first time. The bluntness of his sudden want presses into her bellybutton, given their height difference, but it’s like he doesn’t notice or care – as if it's the most natural thing in the world to come back from the dead and then bury your face in your girlfriend, your naked boner pressed against her stomach with everyone you know just on the other side of the door. Finally, she has to push him away, if for nothing else, to catch her breath.

Rachel pants, “It’s nice to see you again, too. And while I appreciate the evidence of your resumed circulatory function, you might want to cover up before you frighten the others.”

“Or I could just shove a chair in front of the door, and we could finish this.”

Rachel’s mouth is still hanging open when Cynthia returns with a neatly folded pile of clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sphinx - Oh you probably all know her! A female monster with the body of a lion, the breast and head of a woman, and eagle's wings. She was chomping on the good people of Thebes until Oedipus solved her riddle. More on Oedipus later, cuz you know, yikes.


	3. Out of the Foam Came Aphrodite

Charlie squats in the grass, fingers sliding over the glossy blades, almost sharp along the edges. Elation at the return of Miles has swiftly been buried under an unpleasant knot of emotions. It’s been a while now since it was she and Miles against the world, but there was a moment when she first looked into his revived face that she believed things could go back to what they were. And now, two minutes later, there is Miles alone (naked) with her mother in the shack, and dammit, she’s inexplicably outraged.

Sensing Monroe behind her, a crackle of electricity livens her nervous system. The delicate splash of water indicates he’s washing up in the bucket, and peripherally, she notes that he’s discarded his long-sleeve shirt and that peculiar bit of fabric he wears wound about his forearm. 

She finally rises and gazes down at him, her eyes locking onto mutilated flesh and the faint, partial outline of an M.

Bass follows her stare to where he once proudly wore the symbol of his friendship with Miles. For whatever reason, with Charlie he feels more impelled toward truth than with the others. It’s almost like she’s his second chance to get things right. But that’s silly. What is Miles’ niece to him? Especially when there’s a part of Bass – a growing part – that simply wants to let Miles go.

“Burned it off,” he says flatly to Charlie by way of explanation. 

“Because the Republic’s gone?”

 _For one thing_ , Bass thinks, but simply nods. It feels a little like he’s gone through his old photo albums to cut out the heads of all the Miles’s.

Charlie unsheathes her arm from her leather jacket to show Bass her own mark, clear as if she were branded yesterday.

“Yeah, I’d noticed,” Bass mutters, standing up from the bucket and reclaiming his long-sleeve. “When’d you get it?” Probably a firecracker he shouldn’t be prodding with a stick, but what the hell.

“Last year. Conscription boat. Nice little service you did there for the lonely children of the Republic,” Charlie snipes, but her mind is elsewhere, which is why she’s surprised when Bass pushes back.

He's had it with the judgmental shit. _I died for my sins, didn’t I?_ “You want to know why, Charlie? Oh, I suppose you don’t, because it’s more fun that way. But how about it, just for kicks?” Bass pauses and looks straight into her bright, blue eyes. “Orphans: thousands of them – all over the Republic. One time in Indianapolis, we liberated a fucking _children’s_ brothel. Kids as young as eight or nine being pimped out to sick, life-sucking fucks. We hadn’t even considered the possibility of that. I mean, who comes up with something like that? So we offered what we could: three square a day, a job, a meaningful life of service.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Bass exhales. His irritation spent. “Not everything Miles and I did was for nefarious purposes, Charlie. But I guess you already believe that about him.”

“No, not really. He doesn’t tell me anything. Like for instance, what is up with him and my mom? You have any light to shed on that?” Charlie inquires squinting at the shack, where her concentration really lies.

Bass is taken aback by what seems to him a non sequitur. “Hm?” He puts his hands on his hips. “Well, seems like Miles finally got what he wanted. I mean, he’s loved Rachel forev…for a long time.”

“You were about to say _forever_. What does that mean: When my father was still alive?”

“Charlie, this isn’t my business.” Bass can feel it – the wedge he’s helping to drive between Miles and Charlie. But it’s not his fault Miles is the world’s worst communicator.

“No. It _is_ your business, because you’re here with,” Charlie catches herself before she says _part of_ , “our family now. I’m sick to death of the lies.” 

Bass doesn’t particularly feel like bailing out Miles’ stupid ass at the moment. “Ok, yes. Miles loved Rachel from the moment he clamped eyes on her. He’s always loved her. It’s like an essential truth about Miles.”

“But he didn’t _act_ on it until now, right?” Charlie swallows the dry lump in her throat.

Bass coughs. This is going too far. “You should ask him that.”

“I’m asking _you_.”

 _Christ almighty_. Bass is eager as hell to ditch the Matheson family drama and just pursue his own already. But Charlie has (not incorrectly) interpreted his silence as confirmation of the affair.

“Wow. Miles – my mother – they _did_. How could they do that to Dad?”

Bass looks away from Charlie, lapsing momentarily into reverie. _He_ _props up the weeping Miles against his shoulder. His best friend is drunk enough that it’s taking all of Bass’ strength to keep the big body from sinking back down onto the concrete._

_“I miss her, Bass,” Bass is finally able to make out from Miles' trembling lips. Jesus, it’s disconcerting to see him break. And for the first time, Bass has to admit that Miles is actually destroying himself – the drinking, the self-sabotage – it’s the same thing._

“I don’t know, Charlie. Can we really help who we fall in love with?” is what Bass says aloud. Call Bass a fucking romantic, but from his life experience, this seems true.

Charlie stares fiercely at Bass, his eyes earnest, apologetic almost. Right now, they’re the only things that feel honest.

…

Miles gathers his clothes from Cynthia, Aaron right on her heels. They avert their eyes, as Miles begins to pull on his boxers. It’s crazy how oxygenated he feels – almost high on air. He hasn’t felt this alive since he deserted the Militia.

Miles registers Rachel asking Aaron, “How did you get the nanites to heal Miles and Cynthia? Do you have control of them now?”

Threading a bare foot through his pants, Miles can’t help but roll his eyes at the question, though he’s well aware Aaron’s voodoo science just saved his life.

“The nanites were…upset at me, but I think we’ve made amends. Or at least, they’re _willing_ to. They want me to go to Oklahoma with them.”

And just like that, Miles can’t take it anymore. “I’m sorry, the nanites are people now? They want to take a vacation with you to tornado country?”

Aaron shifts his eyes toward Miles but looks surprisingly unaffronted. “Kind of, Miles. They’re sentient, and they think of me as sort of like their dad.” 

Miles gapes at Rachel. While somewhat surprised, she appears to ingest this like it’s a new theorem, rather than the craziest bullshit she’s ever heard in her life. So Miles flops back on the bed prepared to completely shut down.

“Okay…so…they spoke to you?” she probes.

“Yeah. They appeared to me as this kid I used to know.”

Rachel swallows. “So you can ask them to destroy by fire or to heal? To resurrect?”

“Apparently. When they’re not mad.”

“Well don’t make them mad then,” Miles grumbles, yanking on his boots and lacing them up.

Aaron glances at Miles. “I think I’d better go to Oklahoma.”

Miles stands and heads for the door, turning over his shoulder. “Well, go and see what they want. I can’t beat the Patriots; they're too powerful. But you? With the help of these nanite kids of yours? _You_ have a chance.” 

“Miles,” Rachel warns. “I thought we had to keep Aaron safe.” 

“Well, Aaron’s God now. He can protect himself better’n I can.” Miles turns to Aaron. “I’ll meet you back here in a few weeks to deal with the Patriots, okay? For now, I’ve got to take Bass to Mexico.”

Rachel squints, trying to bring Miles into focus. He can’t be this cruel to her, can he? _Fingers crushing her windpipe – the same fingers that have been inside her._ _Fuck. Don’t do this now._ “Miles, why…What could you possibly owe Monroe?” 

“I don’t _owe_ Bass anything. But this, I’ve gotta do.” Miles avoids looking at Rachel for as long as possible and finally caves. Her eyes are the color of water.

“Why?” she demands, her lips a straight line.

“I can’t explain it.”

“You must. Otherwise, believe me, you and I are done.” 

_Shit_ , Miles panics. They’ve gone from practically boning each other to ultimatum in an instant. He stumbles, trying to regroup. What is it she wants him to say?

Miles pauses for so long that Aaron wonders if Miles’ head will explode like that dude in “Scanners,” as if blood and brains spraying everywhere is the only logical result of trying to get Miles to admit his feelings. Amazingly, Miles answers at last, his head intact. He speaks so slowly it’s like he’s learning the English language for the first time.

“I need Bass to have the same chance Charlie gave me.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Rachel intones with terrifying coldness. Aaron can’t help but root for Miles to save himself.

“Well, it’s the best I got,” Miles apologizes and then opens the door onto Bass and Charlie, who are staring at each other in comfortable silence. Miles’ heart is already racing from his row with Rachel, and for some reason, the sick feeling in his stomach intensifies at this new sight.

Charlie turns to deliver an undeniable glare of hostility at Miles and Rachel. Before Miles can even ask himself how the hell he managed to ruin everything both inside and outside the shack, only minutes after coming back from the dead, Aaron and Cynthia emerge panting and white, as if they’ve run a mile to catch up with the people they’ve only just lingered behind.

“Guys,” Aaron’s voice wavers. “I just saw something…through the nanites. Gene’s alive. He’s hiding in a storm cellar nearby.”

Miles swallows and then shakes off impending paralysis. The general in him urges, _Momentum. Get everyone moving before they turn on each other._ “Well, let’s go get Gene, first. And then, Bass and I leave for Mexico.” He glances at Bass, because, of course, this is news to him.

“What?” Charlie’s mouth falls open.

Miles shifts his eyes to her. “I’ve got to take Bass to Mexico, Charlie. It will only take a few weeks, and then I’ll be back.”

“For what? Answer me!” Charlie practically shrieks.

“My son’s there,” Bass responds before Miles has the chance to. “Hey man,” Bass shoots at Miles, “I wanted you to tell me where Connor was. I didn’t ask you to come with me.”

“Bass, if I don’t come, you’ve got no chance with him. Emma wanted him hidden from you, remember? He’ll never trust you, won’t even listen unless I’m there to explain it.”

Bass feels a sudden lurch of resentment at Miles for all the things he knows about Connor – for the treacherous lies Miles has no doubt told Bass' son about his father.

“Then I’m coming, too” Charlie insists suddenly. Pissed as she is at her uncle, she can’t bear the thought of Sebastian Monroe walking away. She realizes how crazy that sounds.

“Charlie!” Rachel objects.  

“Mom, you make your choice; I’ll make mine.”

Rachel glances from Charlie to Miles and actually feels like she might hate them, these Erinyes sent to torment her for all her wrongs. Instead, to cope, she turns away and swallows the bitter pill life has dispensed to her. _Again._

…

_14 Years After the Blackout: Philadelphia_

“You all right, Rachel? You look upset.”

Bass has welcomed himself into Rachel’s room, thrust aside her papers and books, to clink down a bottle of wine and two shimmering, crystal goblets.

“What could possibly be upsetting me?” she blinks, transfixed by the spectrum cast on the white tablecloth.

“Why don’t you tell me?” Bass pries. 

“It’s Charlotte’s birthday. My daughter.”

“I know who Charlotte is, Rachel. How old is she today?”

“Nineteen. If she’s alive.”

“Ah.” Bass pours out the ruby liquid and gives it a swirl before placing it in front of Rachel. “There's something I’ve always wondered. Maybe you’ll humor me.” 

Rachel narrows her eyes still glued to the reflected smear of color, now red instead of rainbow.

“I know exactly when Miles broke off your affair. He was a wreck over it. Then, like clockwork, nine months later: Charlotte. Was she his?”

“What does that matter?”

“Just interested. I don’t know if you realized how badly Miles wanted kids. Oh he’d never admit it, but fuck was it obvious. So if Miles had played his cards differently, would he have had his wish?”

Rachel slides her fingers over the roughness of the crystal, thinking of a crayon rainbow Charlie once drew her. It had leapt brashly out of a smiling cloud. “Honestly, I’m not even sure, but…he could have been her father if he’d wanted.”

“You mean if he'd let himself.”

“Yes.”

Bass just shakes his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love, beauty, pleasure, and procreation, was born when Cronus cut off Uranus's balls and threw them into the sea. She arose from the resulting sea foam.
> 
> *The Erinyes of Greek mythology (the Roman Furies) are the avengers, or some say the embodiment of self-cursing contained in an oath.


	4. Let the Odyssey Begin

“Dad. It’s so good to see you again.” Rachel buries her cold lips in the crease of Gene’s sun-leathered neck, tasting the rare sweetness of amends.   

“Really? After everything?” Gene asks uncertainly, gripping her tightly.

She inhales his vaguely peppermint-scent, transporting her to Christmas as a child and laying out cookies for Santa. Of course, she had done the proper investigatory research at age four to learn that Santa was really Dad, so she took care to leave out Dad’s favorite: chocolate with crushed peppermint candy.

They finally break apart, and she answers, “I understand compromising for family.” With tremendous effort, she banishes the image of young Charlie and Danny, noses dripping and blue eyes watery, as she turns her back on them to go to Miles' camp.

Aaron and Cynthia have already departed, and the three amigos (or so Rachel privately scoffs) are saddling up stolen horses for Mexico. Gene will be staying here – claims he’s too old for adventuring – but Rachel wonders if he just can’t bear the thought of parting with his home and the essence of Mom.

“So, you’re going with Charlie and Miles?” Gene asks pointedly. He’s dispensing gentle advice rather than asking.

“I…” she stammers, glancing at her breathtaking, determined daughter. Monroe is helping Charlie to adjust her saddle and stirrups. The former dictator’s hands appear soft and kind, even from here, and somehow that is more disconcerting than if he’d been strangling her.

“Rachel, a few weeks ago, you insisted we rescue Miles from a vicious warclan at all costs. What is it that’s keeping you from going to him and your own daughter now? What aren’t you telling me?”

Her mouth falls open a long while before she manages: “I’m just not sure I can trust them…around _him_.”

“Monroe?”

“It’s like he has some spell over them,” (and _her_ – she can’t stop staring at those hands), “like somehow in spite of everything, they’re more loyal to him than me. I just can’t fathom it.”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to make excuses, especially not for Miles. But I did see how he sat at your side when you were recovering…both times, especially when you hurt yourself, and Charlie and I were really struggling to understand. Miles slept in that chair; he whispered things to you. I’m not saying I like him for you – I _liked_ Ben. But I do believe he’ll care for you.”

“Dad,” Rachel objects automatically. She doesn’t want to think about how her selfish attempt to hurt herself pained her family, doesn’t want to imagine what Miles might have said to her…the same things he said to Bass when Bass tried it? She despises the fact that she and Bass have become a wobbly, two-sided hand mirror that Miles is afraid to put down for fear they’ll drop out and shatter. 

“Look: your family is waiting for you. Go on.”

But he doesn’t need to say it. That demon hanging over her family? He's hers. And she his.

…

Miles, Charlie, and Bass are holding the horses they’ve “liberated” from some unvigilant Patriots. They found Gene easily thanks to the nanites and are just waiting on Rachel to find her place in this mess.

Miles tries not to watch Rachel talking with her dad in the trees; it makes his chest sting, his eyes swim. He’s been genuinely trying with Rachel, but there’s no way he can rush forgiveness he doesn’t deserve. The only forgiveness he's ever really accepted is Charlie's, and now she appears intent on taking it back. Maybe she’s finally figured out that he ruined her life.

Miles eyes Charlie’s smaller mare – it’s sort of grayish and reminds him of Bass’ old warhorse, Gunsmoke. He brushes away a rush of nostalgia, of pleasure even, for the days he and Bass rode together on campaign. _This is not that_ , he tells himself. Because that always ended in killing, and there’s some chance this will end in…Miles flashes briefly to Charlie’s radiant smile when he first agreed to help her get Danny. Yeah: that. If Bass is lucky.

Charlie’s stirrups are uneven and twisted, so Miles offers, “You want me to fix that for you?”

“I’ve got it, thanks!” Charlie returns briskly, snapping out of her own reverie to begin fussing over the straps. She _doesn’t_ have it though, and after a minute without progress, Miles tries to assist, but Bass intervenes first.

Miles almost tells Bass to back off, but catches himself. He has no idea why Bass being near Charlie sets him off, but he knows for sure he doesn’t want to make Charlie any angrier with him than she already is. So Miles gulps down his ire and stomps away. He can tell he looks like a toddler doing it, because Bass shoots him the most quizzical glance. Unfriendly, even. Bass, who put up with his shit for nearly forty years, is suddenly done, and it makes Miles inexpressibly sad.

Miles has hurled himself toward Rachel and Gene’s conversation to catch the tail end.

“Look: your family is waiting for you. Go on.”

His heart lurches at the idea of being not Rachel’s lover or fuck buddy, but her _family_. With Charlie. You see, this is why Miles hates feelings: they ache worse than war wounds. He should know.

…

_Eight Months before the Blackout_

“Man, you sure you’re going to be able to handle yourself around her?” Bass asks through the open passenger door of the Challenger.

Miles rolls his eyes irritably. “Yeah, Bass. What do you think’s going to happen? I’ll compulsively jump her bones in front of Ben and the kids?”

“Yes, Miles. That’s exactly what I meant. Sure you don’t want me to come along?”

“Nah, man. Go do your thing…what’s her name again? Amber?” Miles rubs his face in fatigue. They drove a long way to get to Chicago, and he’s not at all convinced that this was the best way to spend their leave. But Ben had insisted, and in truth, Miles has a harder time saying no to his big brother than to anyone in the world.

Bass reaches in to squeeze Miles’ shoulder, and Miles catches that ever-present shade of grief in the cerulean eyes that has been there since the Monroe family blitz of 2010. Miles briefly frets over his best friend, and Bass catches him doing it.

“Don’t look at me like that, man. I’m fine. You’re the one who’s on his way to see the married woman you can’t keep your hands off of.”

Bass is right, of course; Miles can’t be trusted around Rachel. He's only seen her once since he called off the affair, and he feels worse about that time than the entire rest of the affair put together. Miles’d come off a rough tour in Afghanistan (the understatement of the century). He’d been sent home to recover with family after a four-month stint as a POW. All it would have taken was a _little_ weakness to lapse into old habits with Rachel, but Miles had been embarrassingly broken – like soaking in a Sitz bath, refusing to get out of her three year-old’s bed broken.

Miles returns a squeeze on Bass’ shoulder as much for himself as for Bass.  “Just call me if you need me,” Miles responds affectionately.

“Yes, if I spontaneously get the urge for a threesome, I’ll let you know right away,” Bass assures with a wry smile, shutting the door on Miles’ response:

“Good.”

Just minutes later, Ben has ushered Miles into the familiar duplex after the customary evasion of forced handshake that Ben always manages to turn hug. “You look well, little brother!” Ben affirms with cheer.

Then surges the dread at seeing Rachel, but she just calls from the kitchen, “Hello!” without turning. All Miles can see is blonde waves cascading down her back and Danny – caught somewhere between babyhood and toddlerdom – plopped on her hip, snot running down his lips, as he sobs in his usual agony.

The flaily, octopus-weight of Charlie catapults into Miles’ legs, nearly wiping him out. “Uncle Miles!”

He’s surprised at how much he’s missed her and nearly smiles.

“Hey, Charlie.”

“Up!” she demands.

He’s still not used to the awkward intimacy of hot, un-toothbrushed breath on your neck; and Charlie apparently hasn’t shaken the habit of thrusting her sticky fingers into the shorn hairs of his head, seemingly fascinated with his high and tight, since her dad wears his hair floppy. From Miles’ arms, she stretches skyward.

“Daddy: Look how tall!” she hollers at Ben, but when Ben comes into the room he's ghastly white.

“We’ve got to take Danny to the ER. He's retracting.”

Miles’ stomach drops, though he has no idea what this means, and he carefully swings down Charlie. “Oh…Jesus. Will he be okay?”

“Yes, he’ll be fine,” Ben says more to Charlie than to Miles. “Can you watch Charlie till we get back?”

Despite Miles’ terror at the thought of entertaining his five year-old niece for any length of time, he’s got no choice. Sure enough, only thirty minutes later he’s run out of ways to make Legos interesting, and feels he might go insane if they don’t get out of the house. This is how they end up driving around the city in his car, belting their lungs out to Guns n’ Roses. Well, Charlie isn’t exactly a G n' R aficionado, but she gamely blurts out “sweet child,” while hyperactively swinging her too-short legs. The seatbelt looks like a strangling device on her, and Miles keeps reaching over to reposition it. Each time, she bears her tiny teeth and bites his forearm, giggling.

When Rachel comes home with Danny hours later (she’s dropped off Ben at work), her eyebrows form a terrifying line at the news that Miles let Charlie sit in the _front_ seat of the car and without a booster. Doesn’t he know that’s illegal? Dangerous? As Rachel’s voice elevates, she orders Charlie to take Danny into the back room, so she can really lay into Miles.

“I’m sorry, Rachel. I didn’t…” Miles’ cheeks are hot and red. He feels awful – he really does. He’d do anything to take it back – to take back coming here at all.

“You didn’t _think_? Yes. That’s exactly the problem with you. You never think about how your actions might affect others. You just get to be so miserable, blundering through life, while the rest of us have to find a way to actually live.”

Miles tries to open his mouth, but no words form.

Rachel’s chest heaves as she glances after the children. “Miles, I don’t want you around me or my kids, especially Charlie.”

“Charlie?” Miles parrots, clinging wildly to the memory of their merry ride.

“I don't want to see you again. Do you understand?”

…

“Rachel, you coming?” Miles forces himself to ask, as both Rachel and Gene’s eyes shift to him. Since she doesn’t say anything, he takes a deep breath and blurts, “I want you to.”

And holds out his hand.

Rachel looks at Gene and then at the extended hand.

She tries to walk by it toward Charlie and Monroe, but he grabs her hand and holds it fast. The air is so chilly and his fingers so warm, calloused, and familiar that she doesn’t fight it. He refuses to let her go all the way back to the horses.

Neither of them notice Charlie turn away from the sight.

…

The quartet ride due South for several hours before, without warning, a feral pack of horseborne Patriots explode out of the trees. All the horses get spooked, but Rachel’s the least experienced rider, so it’s hers that bolts. Miles shoots Bass a desperate glance, as they draw their swords. Galloping after Rachel, Miles manages to hack into the throats of two attackers, crimson blood spattering out from their jugulars.

Bass hurls his metal against the biggest of the Patriots, parries, and bashes the aggressor's chin with his hilt. As the dazed man slips out of his saddle, Bass leaps off his horse and skewers him through the heart. Charlie has crossbowed one foe and is struggling with the other, nearly losing her seat. Bass yanks Charlie’s assailant by the leg from his mount, gutting him as he falls. Finally, Charlie trips the rest of the way out of her stirrup and stumbles headlong into Bass, who steadies her.

Oddly, Charlie isn’t letting go. Her hot fingers knead into his biceps, burn through his longsleeves.

Charlie's heart is racing from combat. She's high on adrenaline and vacated from the truth of Miles' betrayal. Her only source of stablity through all the terrible things that have happened this past year and a half has been pulled out from beneath her like a rug. She could fall, or she could be caught. _Hell_ \- she almost doesn't care anymore. What could she possibly have to lose?

After staring fiercely into Bass' eyes for a full minute, she flings her hands on his scruffy cheeks and grinds him down into her lips.

She tastes sweet and salty, like the taffy Bass and Miles used to get at the lake. She has thrust her hips against his with such a solid _thud_ that it takes him a moment of pondering her tongue in his mouth to decide that she’s coming on to him rather than trying to bash in his balls. Confused, blood evacuating his brain for southern reaches, he extracts her – not unkindly but firmly – his eyes scanning wildly to make sure (a) the Patriots are, in fact, fully slain and (b) that Rachel and Miles are out of range. Because if they saw Bass kissing Charlie, it’s hard to say which one of them would kill him faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Odyssey chronicles the wanderings of Odysseus after the Trojan War. Odysseus gets a lot of tail along the way, so buttercups approves.


	5. An Unlikely Homer

Miles catches Rachel’s reigns to sooth her harried beast. With his other hand, he pats the neck of his own weary mare, who is clearly too old to be thundering after wild horses but served him dutifully, nonetheless. Not that he’d admit this aloud, but he’s dubbed her Nora – silly, really, because Nora never cared much for horses, said they had untrustworthy eyes and precariously dainty ankles. 

“You ok?” Miles tries to summon a very frazzled Rachel’s attention. There’s nothing like nearly being thrown to lose your stomach. “Rachel,” he tries one more time, because her eyes look worryingly unfocused. 

Miles takes a deep breath to push down some unexamined feeling rising in his throat. This often happens around Rachel when she looks lost or hurt. _My fault_ , is all he can think.

“I just need to walk for a minute,” Rachel’s voice finally wavers.

“No. Stay in your saddle. We’ve got to get back to Charlie…and _Bass_ ,” he mutters like he’s chagrinned to mention the offending name, “before we get swamped by more Patriots. That patrol didn’t just fall on us by accident.”

He leads his horse around behind hers to urge her onward, yet still she rides dazed.

“You gonna be okay…around him?” he grunts.

Rachel’s back stiffens. “You mean am I going to _hurt_ him? I thought I made it clear by saving his li-” 

“Not what I meant. Are _you_ going to be okay? Do you need to…” Miles shifts in his saddle and swallows the world’s largest lump, “talk.” 

From up ahead, Rachel can’t help but laugh at the utter absurdity of those words coming out of Miles’ mouth. Before she can think of how to answer, though, they’re advancing on Charlie. And _him_.

…

Well, Bass has still got it if a twenty year-old wants him. He momentarily preens, would brag about it to someone – to _Miles_ – but, of course, that’s out of the question. This is pretty much the most confusing thing that’s happened to him in a list that includes: watching a fat guy ignite people with his mind, being sprung from the grave by his former captive of eight years, and bearing witness to his best friend's triumphant return from the dead. Resurrection may have lately become quotidian, but Charlie Matheson kissing him? Now _that_ is crazy.

Frankly, how he feels about Charlie is not what matters, even if he did have time to unravel that tangle. What matters is that if Charlie is on _his_ side, he’s secure in his present company. Nothing is more important to Miles and Rachel than Charlie. But he’s got to be smart. No exploiting this one. And for whatever reason (as he learned back at the school house), it turns out that he’s not so keen on hurting Charlie.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a very distracted Rachel and Miles riding toward him. This is it – his last second alone with Charlie. He gently draws his thumb across her forehead.

“You’ve got some dirt,” he whispers down toward unflinching blue eyes. 

Hell, her skin feels like velvet. The sun hasn’t yet sapped her youth. Then, their moment is over. 

Miles clatters up, taking stock of the carnage from their kill. “Well, come on. The Patriots are bound to be after us, and these scrawny pines are the last trees around from here to the Pacific Coast. We’ll have to find another way to travel with cover.”

Her heart still racing, Charlie watches Bass extract his binoculars to scan the horizon.

“Wagon train,” he points. “Umm…this is going to sound strange, but…they’ve got an elephant with them and a giraffe?”

“A traveling zoo?” Rachel suggests.

Charlie's legs feel like they're floating. She has no idea what she’s gotten herself into, but for once, it feels good, and nothing ever feels good. To hell with trying to understand it.

“Uh… _circus_ if the person driving that wagon is any indication,” Bass returns, glancing at Charlie. She almost imagines a wink, but it’s probably more of a flinch in the harsh light of afternoon.

“Who’s driving?” Charlie asks curiously.

“Someone with two heads.”

Miles and Bass look very seriously at one another, and then they nod.

“Time to join the circus,” Miles offers without humor.

…

When they unsaddle the horses, Rachel notices Miles give his mare a sad, parting glance. He drives the herd right toward the circus train for a diversion, while the four of them stow away in a cargo wagon. There’s scarcely enough room for two, but they all cram in, limbs tangled in limbs. There isn’t enough time to work out the least awkward arrangement of bodies, so Rachel ends up compressed between Charlie and Bass. Miles is pinned on the other side of Charlie. 

“You think we’re heading the right way?” Rachel asks Miles in a low voice, but he’s furthest from her and probably can’t hear.

“We’re heading south. All we need is to get across the border,” Bass answers, irking her.

Charlie twists an elbow and accidentally grinds it directly into Miles’ rib, who yelps:

“Watch it!" 

She tries to shrug but there’s no space, so she just glowers. “Sorry.” In fact, she wants to poke him again, only this time harder.

“Charlie, what the hell is wrong with you? You’ve been scowling at me all day.” 

She can’t actually turn to look at Miles, but something about his comment rattles her. She realizes in a moment that he sounds exactly like her father. Except Ben would have asked nicely.

“No, I haven’t,” she snaps automatically. It sounds immature even to her, but she’s peeved, mainly because she hadn’t thought to position herself _between_ her mother and Bass.

“I thought we were past the annoying kid phase,” Miles bites.

“And I thought we were past your asshole phase,” she retorts, allowing Bass' _yeah right_ laugh to egg her on to a little snort.

“Well, we’ve got a long ride in this coffin together, so you can either-”

All of a sudden, it stops being funny. She asked Miles for six long months what happened between him and her mother, and he never said a thing. In contrast, she’d learned from one minute of being alone with Bass _exactly_ what had transpired. And she’ll be damned if Miles gets to act superior.

“You betrayed Dad, Miles. And you, Mom. What kind of people are you, anyway? How did I end up with a family like this?” It’s meaner than she’d intended, but right now, she doesn’t care. Her voice has also carried too far, because Bass shushes her. Her cheeks burn.

“What are you talking about?” Miles hisses.

“You know _what_. And you,” she tries to face her mother. This feels easier to say to her. “While married to Dad, you were busy boning his brother!” She’s never used a word that crass, but it suits the bile bubbling up from her stomach.

Miles manages to grab Charlie's arm almost painfully, “Don’t talk to your mom that way.”

Charlie shakes him off with an exaggerated, “Ow!”

“Ch-charlie,” Rachel's broken voice begins.

But Miles interrupts. “Bass, did you tell her? You’re so goddamn lucky I can’t reach you right now, or I’d kill you.”

“Hey, buddy. Don’t look at me. This is your mess."

Charlie is so sick of Miles protecting Rachel – _everything_ is about Rachel. Then, it hits Charlie, and before she can even think it through, it has tumbled out of her mouth: “Miles, did Mom abandon us to be with you in Philadelphia?” She might vomit. _Oh God_. If this is true, she’ll fling herself out of this wagon.

Miles’ anger evaporates into cold, ugly, self-loathing. That she could even think that… _Shit_. It’s too horrible to bear. Miles has never been a coward when it comes to risking his life, but he’s been a coward to Charlie about this. Time to own up. 

Rachel is trying to speak again, but Miles interrupts. This is _his_ cross.

“Look, it _is_ my fault Rachel left you kids.” He feels Charlie’s breath catch. “But it’s not what you think. The Republic was young; things were fucked. Bass and I kept losing battles. And everything at home was in chaos – sanitation, taxes, currency, you name it. All this shit we hadn’t been prepared for. And Bass…sometimes he was fine and sometimes he wasn’t. I wasn’t smart enough to figure it out on my own.”

Bass interjects, “Oh poor Miles. I’m sorry I was such a fucking burden after I lost my entire family. Twice. Maybe you forgot the lifetime I spent scraping your drunk ass off the pavement.”

Surprisingly, Charlie intervenes. “Bass, just let him…what happened?” 

On Miles blunders, “Well, Bass suggested we find Ben. Ben had warned us about the Blackout just seconds before it happened, so if he could bring back the Power, maybe…But for me it wasn’t about the lights; it was about Ben. Maybe my big brother could help me” _(save me)_ “with all of it – Bass, the Republic, everything I’d fucked up. When I found Ben, he wouldn’t come with me, so I threatened to take you all – gave him a night to think it over. Next day, instead of Ben showing up in my camp, it was Rachel.”

Part of Miles wants Rachel to rescue him from chapter two, but she seems as spellbound by his tale as Charlie. “Rachel and I had such a messed-up history; I figured she was there to play me. But she was my only bait for Ben." _Fuck, it sounds so terrible._ "I tried to keep her away from Philly and Bass, but...I lost control of it. I left to chase a lead on Ben, and by the time I got back, Rachel had died of typhoid. I swear I saw her body, Charlie. I-”

At that very moment, the wagon flaps open, unleashing a torrent of scalding sunlight. Two very tan faces, one framed by a rainbow wig and the other a babushka, peer at them and prattle in Spanish. 

Only Rachel understands it. The clown says, “Get the gun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Homer was the greatest of ancient Greek poets, author of The Iliad and The Odyssey.


	6. The Siren Sings

Well, isn’t this the perfect end to a perfect day? Miles’ wrists are bound to Bass’ behind their backs, Rachel’s to Charlie’s, as if they’re playing cowboys and Indians with this band of circus freaks, except those are real M-16s leveled at their heads. Rachel’s been imploring them to have mercy in desperate Spanish for the better part of five minutes. _They can’t possibly have bullets for those guns,_ Miles marvels. The two-headed woman Bass had scoped out through his binoculars appears to be reveling in pointing her rifle directly at Miles’ sac. She – _they_ – are licking their lips like they might want to fry up and eat his testicles for supper.

Miles and Bass feel each other trying to wriggle out of their bonds to no avail. The two-headed woman’s knots could shame a dominatrix. When Bass makes a particularly obvious (and once again futile) attempt to break free, the rifle’s muzzle roughly prods the soft bulge of Miles’ crotch. 

“Oof. Bass! Quit it before I lose my nuts,” Miles objects, attempting to use his head to smack some sense into Bass and nearly concussing them both.

Bass _Fuck-ow!s_ and tries to crane his neck around to see what has got Miles’ knickers up his butt. “Good luck with that, man. Those girls look hungry.”

The _twins_ – should Miles call them? – laugh and again lick their lips, shoving the barrel harder into Miles as confirmation. He breaks out into a cold sweat.

Miles grouses, “I don’t need luck; I need you to stop-”

Rachel interrupts in English: “Okay. I’ve explained everything to this nice group of circus people,” she stumbles over _nice_ and _people_ like she’s inventing a new vocabulary to suit the absurdity of the situation. She’s also ‘smiling’ like she’s trying to cover up the second suicide of Titus Andover’s wretched wife. “We’re just _performers_ like them, who got attacked by bandits, lost everything, and are now looking for a new troupe. Tomorrow they’re heading into Mexico, where they’re from, but they’ll give us a chance to prove ourselves in their last Texas performance tonight. They’ll let us borrow some costumes, since we’re down on our luck and-”

“We’re _what_? _Tonight_?” Miles growls.

“Oh, please tell me Miles is a clown! With a little tear and a squirting flower!” Bass exclaims and would clap his hands in glee if they were mobile.

“Miles and Bass are sword-swinging acrobats, of course,” Rachel continues undeterred.

Bass snorts and holds in a laugh, as he imagines Miles doing a somersault while donning a big red nose. (Bass isn’t ready to dispense with the clown thing yet.)

“And Charlie and I have a knife act.”

Charlie gulps.

“You two are off to the male dressing wagon to choose costumes, and Charlie and I to the ladies’. So _behave_ ,” Rachel finishes, hoping they understand her warning to play along and not kill anyone, as she flexes her newly liberated wrists. “Keep your balls intact,” she instructs with a final glance at Miles’ crotch and a pert frown. 

Bass actually cackles this time. How can he help himself when things have taken such a turn for the ludicrous? But this will get him into Mexico, the most important thing right now. He’s got to hand it to Rachel. She’s exceedingly clever. Now that he and Miles have finally been rent apart, he catches a glimpse of his old friend’s glowering mug.

“Oh cheer up, Miles. You’ve waited your whole life for Rachel to care that much about your balls.” With that, he lopes toward the indicated wagon before Miles can lay into him. For a moment, Bass is envious of Rachel for getting to be Charlie’s circus partner. _Throwing knives with Charlie? Now that could be fun._

Charlie ducks after her mother into a wagon glutted with gaudy costumes unlike anything she’s ever beheld – sequins, feathers, dazzling hues. She feels like a little girl again, running fabric through her fingers in awestruck silence.

Rachel reaches into a rack and hands Charlie an emerald-encrusted string bikini.

“Mom!” she objects.

“Well, we’re not very good, so we’d better give them something to look at.”

Charlie snatches the bra and collapses inward, giggling away some of the tension. “Mom, what were you thinking? I’m not throwing a knife at you!”

“Well, you seemed proficient enough back in Willoughby. Besides, it’s the first thing that came to mind,” Rachel adds apologetically and holds up a red and black lace leotard against her chest. “Now find me some fishnets – they make my legs look longer.” One corner of her mouth rises. 

“How do you know that?” Charlie briefly buries her face in embarrassment but begins looking for the requested stockings.

Rachel chuckles and settles in front of a mirror to begin brushing her long waves. “Come here and sit, Charlie. Your hair looks a bit…stringy.”

Charlie shakes her head. Looking pretty has never been high on her list of priorities. With a sudden flash across her subconscious of intense blue eyes and golden curls, she thinks, _Cleaning up might not be so bad._

As Charlie settles before her mother, Rachel gathers the familiar silk in her fingers. It feels so natural to brush her daughter’s hair again after all these years.

…

_Six Years After the Blackout_

Rachel’s hands are shaking.

“Haven’t you heard about the massacre in Maryland? They’re calling General Matheson the Butcher of Baltimore. Fifteen civilians dead – some of them children!” Georgia Riley, a woman Rachel is trading herbs for a chicken, informs her. Georgia appears to delight in the juiciness of this rare bit of gossip, while Rachel fears she might vomit on her own shoes.

“What happened?” Rachel forces her bottom lip under control.

“Who knows? The Militia doesn’t need an excuse to kill. General Matheson is a brute. An animal. I hope he rides into our town some day; I’d spit on him faster than-”

“Don’t say that, Georgia. Spite isn’t worth dying over.” Rachel feels her feet carry her away, the plucked chicken slung over her shoulder, back toward the cottage in which they’ve been staying for several months. Rumors hideously morph in the post-apocalyptic game of telephone – Rachel knows that. But still, what excuse could there possibly be for dead children? What monster has Miles become? A man she loved, a man she held, a man who quite possibly gave her Charlie.

_Charlie_. She’s been acting so strange all week, but Rachel has been so wrapped up in securing them food – they’ve been desperately hungry since they had to abandon their crops at their last abode – that she hasn’t really thought until this moment to sit down with her eleven year-old and ask. Eleven is such a hard age. Puberty could hit any day… _puberty_. Oh dear. Charlie has been acting as moody as a cat evicted from its favorite sunspot.

“Charlie!” Rachel calls as she knocks on the door to Charlie and Danny’s room. It only now dawns on Rachel that Charlie might mind sharing…if she is indeed becoming a woman. Jesus, it’s alarming to ponder that transition in the Black. So, so vulnerable are women out here.

Charlie grunts a response, which is permission enough for a mother to enter, and sure enough, the blonde hair entirely obscures the face-planted preteen.

Rachel sits straight-backed on the bed beside her and spreads her fingers soothingly on Charlie’s back. “What is it, sweetheart?” 

Charlie is sobbing now, her bony shoulders rattling under the lustrous gold.

“You can tell me anything.”

Finally Charlie shrieks into her pillow, “I’m dying, okay!? And when I’m dead, I don’t want Danny to have Teddy! Just bury Teddy with me!”

Rachel swallows a near smile at the dramatic bouquet of hormones and childhood tossed haphazardly together and gathers her daughter into her arms. “What do you mean you’re dying?”

“I can’t…” 

“Do you,” Rachel searches for the right phrasing, “see blood in your underwear?”

Charlie’s mouth falls open in awe, as she gazes up at her mother, tears dripping down her nose. She nods. “How did you…?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t prepare you for it, Charlie. It’s just part of growing up, part of what will allow you to be a mother some day, if you choose to be.”

As Rachel participates in the ancient ritual between mother and daughter, which should be nothing but beautiful, another surge of dread rattles her. There’s a loss of innocence in it – a sheet of protection has fallen. Suddenly, Rachel feels like weeping.

…

Charlie listens to her mother humming a tune she can’t quite place and allows the brush to massage her weary roots. “Mom…Miles said you came to his camp instead of Dad. Why?”

Rachel puts down the brush, her fingers clumsily clinking together a bottle of rouge with a pot of eye stain. “Make up? Yes, I think so.”

Just as Charlie is about to succumb to a tide of frustration, Rachel embarks on an answer in voice that sounds as if it has traveled a great distance to reach this plane.

“You didn’t know Miles as general, Charlie…well, neither did your father or I, really. But we heard things – _terrible_ things. We didn’t want to believe, but we had to. Especially when Miles found us and demanded Ben, threatened to take us all if Ben didn’t come with him.”

“I’ve learned a thing or two about Miles as general, Mom. I get it.”

Rachel swallows audibly, but she gently instructs, “Close your eyes,” and drags eyeliner – cool and wet – across Charlie’s eyelids.

“What Miles told you isn’t wrong. I went instead of Ben, because I foolishly believed I could ruin them from the inside – that only _I_ could, because I knew what buttons to push with Miles. Ben was charged with keeping you two safe. I thought I could outwit everyone and make it back, but smart isn’t always…”

“ _What_ happened?”

“You know – I’m not even sure I fully understand. Miles and I played a long game of chicken; he kept insisting I tell him where Ben was no matter how many times I told him that I knew how the Power went out and could turn it back on. Miles wasn’t listening, wasn’t telling me the truth of what he wanted, was so angry with everyone. And then…Bass." 

Charlie’s stomach lurches at the name, as she recalls the salty taste of his lips. She wants to silence her mother, to make her stop before she ruins everything again, but for once in her life, Rachel is talking as if she’s under a spell.

“Bass wasn’t well, Charlie. Miles kept moving our camp, insisting that time was running out, and I had to tell him where Ben was. And then, Bass showed up. They fought…I think. And when I was being transported to Philadelphia – something strange happened en route. I got the sense that someone was trying to disrupt the caravan or even rescue me. I thought at first maybe it was Ben, but now I think it was Miles. One day in the capital, Miles was away, apparently, and Bass came to my room for a chat. I blacked out, woke up in a cell. I never saw Miles again – not until you two came to rescue Danny. After years of being a prisoner in some dark, horrid place, for no apparent reason, Bass took me to Independence Hall with him to live. He gave me books and a room – a kind of dollhouse to live in. Eventually Bass told me that Miles had defected, tried to kill him even…In a strange way, I think Bass wanted me as a friend, a confidant.”

Rachel thinks, _Like he was angrier at me for rejecting his friendship and hanging around as a reminder of Miles’ betrayal than he was that I withheld the truth about the Power._ But this kind of speculation skirts too close to her punishments. Everything she did and said had swift consequences in Philadelphia. Charlie can’t know that.

Charlie exhales. None of it makes any sense – least of all Miles and her mother _together_ after all of that.

“Charlie, there is something you should know about them – Miles and Bass. When the lights went out, in some respects, the least became the greatest, the servants the masters.” 

Charlie squints at her mother, afraid this conversation is actually turning Rachel crazy again.

“I’m not explaining it well…Miles and Bass are powerful men, no doubt, but without the intelligence to-”

“You’re calling them _dumb_? That’s your excuse for everyone’s behavior you don’t like!” 

“No, Charlie, not at all. I’m sorry, I…They’re _not_ dumb, and neither are you. What I mean is, I’d hoped they’d learned their limits – that making war like the Huns doesn’t work anymore. People are more evolved than that. But listening to Miles lately, I’m not so sure he learned. War was the first thing he fell back on when the Patriots came to town. Maybe you and I could show him another way? Miles might listen now after everything that’s happened. After all, he let Aaron go. _Bass_ might even listen since he’s hell bent on finding his son,” she adds in a mumble; her emotions unravel on the subject of Bass’ son. “Do you think we cold be a team on this?”

Charlie ponders the strange suggestion. She’s not even sure what her mother is asking of her. But Rachel’s outpouring of truth is something they could actually build upon for once. “Maybe. But there’s one thing I have to know. Did Dad _know_ about your affair with Miles?”

Rachel swallows. “Yes.”

“And did he forgive you?”

“It’s so much more complicated than – marriage is so complicated _anyway_ , but after the Blackout…Yes. He forgave me, Charlie.”

“And did he forgive Miles?”

“I believe so. Ben sent you to him after all.”

“Then…I’ll try to forgive you, too,” Charlie says and then realizes she means it. In a moment of clarity, she grasps that you can believe of people what you want. And right now, playing dress up with her mother, forming a team to keep Miles and Bass on the straight and narrow, feels like what she wants. She doesn’t want to ask what is wrong with Bass. And so she won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Greek mythology, the Sirens lured sailors with their enchanting voices to shipwreck on the rocks of their island. Only Odysseus has heard their song and survived, since he had his sailors plug their ears with beeswax and tie him to the mast.


	7. Bacchus…Ruckus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This amount of talking will never happen on the show, but CATHARSIS. These people are a mess! The idiocy of season 2!!! *throws up hands* Just be calm, everyone. I give relatively happy endings.
> 
> And hey, you could read between the lines to all the pairings here: Mayhem, Charm, Miloe, Marlie...Let's play spot the ship!

While the quartet costumes, the wagon train reaches its destination on a sandy expanse just outside the Mexican border. By the time Charlie and Rachel emerge, the silvery moon lights a small city of distended, colorful tents, as junk food is fried, exotic animals watered, and acrobats’ muscles warmed. One wisp of a man turns a backflip into a cartwheel right at Charlie’s feet and takes a bow, summoning in her a surge of spontaneous joy. Charlie never went to the circus as a child, and she is giddy with anticipation. Stumbling toward her now are two drunken pirates – the taller wearing a bandana, a patch, and an enormous clip-on hoop earing and the shorter donning a tricorn hat, eyeliner, and a puff-sleeved shirt.

“Holy mother…” she marvels as she recognizes them: Miles and Bass. She bursts out into such a fit of laughter that her diaphragm spasms, and she starts hiccupping. 

Rachel has to practically hold Charlie upright, and Miles is so alarmed, he flies to Charlie’s side to check on her. She waves him off.

“It’s…oh my God, hahaha! Your _earring_!”

Miles shrugs and looks at Rachel. His jaw drops. He swipes at some ungentlemanly drool. Luckily, he’s soused off his boots, because otherwise his pants might pitch a tent as big as the high top. Rachel is clad in black stilettoes with red soles, which make her approximately six feet tall. From there, his eyes wander up black fishnet stockings to a red and black lace leotard, her shapely breasts cascading out over the top. Absurdly, he wants to go and bury his face in them. _You’re drunk; get a grip!_ he encourages himself.

Miles shakes it off to look at Bass, who is equally transfixed by Charlie, _the goddamn pervert_. Charlie is wearing a green, bedazzled ensemble that barely covers her bits and high, whorish leather boots. Both mother and daughter are lavishly painted with make-up. With sudden desperation, Miles wants to get Charlie a robe…or get her to a nunnery. 

Miles jams the hilt of his sword at Bass’ tricorn with the desired effect of knocking it over his eyes.

“Hey! Giant prick-in-the-ass,” Bass complains.

“Charlie, what the hell are you wearing?” Miles hears his voice crisp and clear in his mind but is dimly aware that it’s come out slurred and wonky instead.

“Miles, for God’s sakes! How drunk are you?” Rachel interjects.

Bass’ eyes are equally unfocused. Rachel wants to smack both of these pirate-nitwits. They’re liable to slice each other’s hands off on stage.

“We fight better drunk,” is Bass’ lame apology.

As they make their way toward the big top, Bass takes immense pleasure in tripping Miles and watching him stumble. He almost wants to stab Miles, non-mortally of course, during their swordfight, he’s such an insufferable dick. And _damn_ , knowing that Charlie wants Bass, what with her wearing that costume and him being fuck-all drunk, is a rather dangerous and glorious mix that is getting to his nethers.

Charlie leads the way with her mom just behind her shoulder and says to her in a low voice, “Are they okay? Aren’t they going to hurt themselves?”

Rachel gives Charlie this look like the boys are the most perfect idiots she’s ever encountered, but she replies resignedly, “They’ve been functioning alcoholics for at least 25 years, Miles probably closer to 30. If this is their last act, then at least they’ll go out in a blaze of fatuity.” 

“Mom!” Charlie briefly wonders what fatuity means. Aaron wasn’t exactly tops at imparting vocabulary…nor did Charlie listen all that well in school. She was usually just awaiting the next adventure.

“They’ll be fine, Charlie,” Rachel assures. “They’ve survived themselves this long.”

When they’re about to enter the backstage area of the tent, Miles pulls Rachel aside and waits for Bass and Charlie to disappear behind the royal red fabric.

“What- _uh_!” Rachel yelps.

Miles _thunks_ Rachel against his lips and already has a hot hand on her ass.

“Down, boy,” Rachel orders, pushing him back. Ignoring his whipped-puppy eyes, she scrunches his chin in her hand. “Be careful in there – you’re not quite the acrobat you used to be.” Her concern at what she’s gotten them into is mounting by the minute. 

Miles drags his bleary eyes up from her cleavage to respond, his breath sour with whiskey. “Bass and I can put on a show. We did learn to swordfight on each other.”

“Can you at least lose the eye patch? It puts you at a disadvantage.”

“Nope, it’s part of the mystique. And Rachel, he’s not going to hurt me. Are you seriously worried about that?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“This isn’t about trust. Bass doesn’t want me dead.”

…

Inside the greenroom area of the big top, all manner of characters have assembled – a bearded lady in a bikini (not unlike Charlie’s), more tiny acrobats, an elephant and its Indiana Jones-esque trainer. Charlie takes them all in and beams at Bass. In a flash, Bass has pulled her in for a heart-racing lip lock. They tangle fingers, and Charlie stands on tiptoe to kiss his nose, admiring the electric blue eyes outlined in black.

Still close to his face, she murmurs, “What was that for?” 

“The emeralds. My birth stone.”

“Mine too!”

“I know. Our birthdays are three days apart.”

For some reason, the fact that Bass knows things about her – things they have in common – exhilarates her. They are May babies, Tauruses, stubborn bulls! _God, crushes are silly_. What is happening to her? She briefly runs her palm over the smooth skin of his chest that is exposed by the loose fabric of his shirt. As she walks away, she rather hopes he _can’t_ manage to keep his eyes at sea level.

…

Miles parts the curtain so that he and Bass can get a view of Rachel and Charlie when they take the stage. The crowd is impressively large considering they’re in the middle of fuck-knows-where. The pleasant aroma of popcorn and spun-sugar somehow manages to cut through the flask of booze Bass is waving under Miles’ nose. 

“I shouldn’t,” Miles murmurs but takes a swig anyway. He’s nervous as hell that Charlie’s going to miss and send a dagger straight through Rachel’s recently arrow-pierced heart.

The announcer booms, “And now for the jaw-dropping, the fabulous: Shank Sisters!”

Miles and Bass exchange a dubious look, but then Bass lightly nods. “Rachel _has_ been known to shank even her friends.”

“And then bury them in their own hole,” Miles admits.

Bass quirks an eyebrow, half-impressed. “That’s one I haven’t heard.”

Miles shrugs. “That’s my girl.”

So far, Charlie is doing well enough in the act. Her first knife is too far from Rachel’s armpit on the human-sized target board to be awe-inspiring, but the second one lands so near to Rachel’s cheek that Miles actually holds his breath. Meanwhile, both women look so insanely appealing that he wonders if anyone is really watching the knives. 

Slowly something disturbing dawns on Miles. “Bass!” he barks suddenly.

Bass, who is kneeling below him, looks up quizzically. Sure enough, there is a smear of red lipstick on his nose…the exact color of the lipstick Rachel and Charlie are wearing. And since Miles was with Rachel the whole time…

“You fucking traitor. I will kill you!” Miles snarls, reaching down to try to get hold of Bass’ throat.

Bass drops his chin and rolls out, but Miles flings his big body onto him, taking the wind out of his lungs. Bass gasps and paws at Miles’ face, finally distracting him enough to sock him hard in the nads. Miles rolls off cringing, and Bass pins him, punching him in the gut.

“Had enough, brother?” Bass asks coolly as he sits on Miles’ stomach.

“Hey, how’s about you two save it for the floor?” snaps the strong man reclining nearby. “You pirates are _on_.”

Miles shoves Bass and gets up in a huff. They straighten their costumes.

“Hell is wrong with you, man? Had more than you can handle of liquor?” Bass glares.

“You fucked with Charlie, you cocksucker. I knew you would.”

“I… _what_?”

“Lipstick on your nose, you donkey-boning, jizz-slime, monkey-wank…”

Bass shakes his head against the string of imaginative profanity. Well, hopefully, Miles doesn’t kill him out here. “She kissed _me_ , Miles. I pushed her off. That’s the truth,” Bass tries to no avail.

Bass is almost blinded by the torch-glow of the arena, as he makes his way into the ring, and before he can even get his bearings, a menacing flash of metal above his head alerts him to the fact that Miles intends to play dirty. Bass parries in time and swings at Miles’ torso. Miles back-somersaults away – not nearly as funny without a red nose. Sweat is already dripping down Bass’ temples as he climbs a rope to hack at Miles, catching his foe’s neck between his thighs and squeezing. Miles gasps and sputters, as they clash metal against metal. A thigh lock is the hardest to break. When Miles starts to slacken, Bass releases, but it’s a trap. Miles punches him off the rope and nearly sinks a cut into his shoulder but is again parried. 

Charlie and Rachel watch from backstage with increasing anxiety.

“Are they acting?” Charlie asks, her knuckles white.

Rachel opens her mouth to answer but is silenced by vicarious pain for Miles, as he takes a sword-punch to the un-patched eye. He returns a sock in Bass’ stomach. The audience is on their feet. Both men are suddenly down to one sword each, using ropes to swing at one another, rapt in a terrifying game of Donkey Kong. Miles slashes Bass’ rope, but as he falls, he yanks Miles’ leg, wrenching him painfully down the rope's length. Rachel can make out the bright pink burns from here. The crowd _oohs_ and _ahs_ , and at last, the men exchange pure sword swipes, igniting visible sparks. Bass manages to drop Miles’ last sword, and Rachel has no idea how Miles does it, but before Bass can stand triumphant, Miles has twisted Bass’ arm around and gotten his opponent's own blade to throat. Then, Miles drops the sword and bows. Bass bows shakily after.

As they’re sulking back toward the women, Charlie hears Bass say to Miles, “I let you have that, you lousy shit.”

“Like hell you did! You took your eyes off the prize when I dropped my blade, pathetic cunt.”

Charlie is rattled at their viciousness with one another. So it wasn’t an act. And suddenly Miles is plowing into Charlie and forcing her outside with a hand on her shoulder, as he peels off his patch and bandana, the stupid earring still dangling precariously from his ear.

“Charlie, what were you thinking? You know what he’s capable of!” Miles yells too close to her face, before she’s had time to think. She shakes her head at him in confusion, and he clarifies, “Kissing Bass!”

“Oh no, you are _not_ the boss of me, Miles!” she returns with matched venom. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Bass has appeared next to Miles. He has lost the ridiculous tricorn in the swordfight.

“Miles, just drop it. You have my word – I won’t touch her again!” Bass tries from behind Miles.

Miles cringes at his voice.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Charlie interjects exasperated.

“When you stop acting like a hormonal teenager, then you get a say!” Miles bellows.

“Fuck you, Miles,” Charlie spits, outraged. She’s never said that to someone before, and it feels like she’s gotten him with one of her circus daggers. But she doesn’t stop there. “How do you get to judge someone else on this when you couldn’t keep your hands off your own brother’s wife?”

Surprise and then pain clouds Miles’ black eyes. She’s never so directly eviscerated Miles before and regrets it almost immediately…though she can’t help but think he deserved it.

“Bass, give us a minute,” Miles says in a low voice, “and keep Rachel away.” 

“This conversation is over, Miles,” Charlie objects, imagining it can go nowhere good from here. Best to leave it be.

But when Bass has departed, Miles makes a visible effort to calm himself, relaxing his shoulders and heaving a great sigh.

“Look Charlie, you’re right, okay? I have no right to tell you who you should be with. But we’re taking about _Bass_ , and he’s…there’s no one I know better. I mean before Shelly, he was a total letch.”

“Shelly?”

“His wife. Got married after the Blackout.”

“But…” Charlie struggles with indescribable jealousy.

Miles’ voice softens even more. “She died in childbirth.”

“He…he had a baby?”

Miles ghosts a hand to his brow. “Charlie, I care about stupid, fucking Bass, okay? It’s why I’m here. But _he is not well_. He’s not fit to…How can you not see that after everything that’s happened?”

“Not _well_. You mean, like Mom? Like the woman _you_ love, Miles?” 

Miles turns away.

“ _Do_ you?”

“Do I what?” he answers without looking back.

“Love her? Was she worth all the pain you caused?”

“Charlie what has gotten into…” Miles starts to ask, turning around at last, but Charlie regards him so fiercely that his voice fades. “I can’t help the way I feel about her, Charlie. Believe me, if I could, I _would_. But she’s worth everything to me. And so are you. So please…be careful around him.” His voice breaks, as he turns to retreat to the tent.

But Charlie walks over and encircles him with her arms. “I know you care, but you really have a messed up way of showing it,” she mumbles into his shoulder. It feels good to hug Miles again. Corny as it sounds, it’s her home base. It must be his too, because he immediately turns to get his long arms around her and squeeze tightly. She feels his lips on her hair – that familiar gesture of love.

“ _Promise me_ you’ll be careful around him.”

“If we’ve entered the sex ed portion of this talk, then…”

“Uh!” Miles pushes her away to arm’s length. “If you…I will cut off his-”

“Well aren’t you two the perfect picture of domestic bliss. Guess what? The Patriots are here; they had Rachel. You’re welcome for saving her,” Bass launches at Miles, as Rachel trails wearily behind him, a red mark turning bruise on her cheek. Bass points at three horses bound to a tree. “What do you say we split, and Brady Bunch this out _south_ of the border?”

Miles pulls Charlie onto a horse with him. They can barely fit in the saddle together, and she’s a little annoyed to think that he’s protecting her like a child, but she can’t help but feel secure with his warmth at her back. Their horse is slower under their load, and Miles zigzags in the trees to make up for their handicap. At one point, a Patriot rides right beside them and Charlie ducks, blood spattering her hair. She glances up just in time to see his head roll off, his wild horse bearing away what’s left of him away. It’s ghastly, exhilarating. Miles guides their exhausted horse into a ditch.

“We’ll catch up with them in a bit. Have to rest the horse,” he explains, helping Charlie to dismount and then slumping off himself. They lie there beside their spent horse, as Miles rubs his rope-burned hands, his black eye starting to color. “We need to find you some other clothes, Charlie. Outfit like that, people’ll think…” 

“I’m your strumpet?”

Miles narrows his eyes. “That’s the primmest word for a whore I ever heard. And yeah. Also…we can’t leave Rachel alone with Bass for long, so we can only rest a minute.”

“Why? You think she’ll hurt him?”

“No, Charlie,” Miles shakes his head like he’s utterly dismayed at her. “Don’t you get it? Bass hurt her. For years.” Miles’ voice garbles in his throat, and he has to clear it. “You and I taking sides with Bass for any reason…It kills her. We have to protect _her_ from _him_.”

Charlie closes her mouth and listens to her blood thunder. For four lousy people, they sure have a lot of conflicting alliances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bacchus was the Roman god of wine and esctacy.


	8. His Twelve Labors

“How will we find them?” Rachel asks, her horse trailing Bass’. She’s trying to pretend he’s someone else – not the president-general, her gatekeeper. And it’s not altogether difficult. He looks so different from then – smaller out of his uniform, his shoulders slope a bit as if he’s visibly worn from years in a trying job. Still, when he talks, the voice is the same one that bored into her brain, convincing her that she was a terrible mother, a bitch, a whore…and every now and then (just to throw her off), an old friend.  

Bass glances back at Rachel, senses still hopped up on adrenaline. Most of the goons diverted after Miles’ slower horse, so as far as he can tell, they are safe for the moment. “Let’s dismount here; I’ll use the binoculars. If I can’t see them, I can at least reflect sun off the lenses. Send Miles a signal. Of course, it might attract any Patriots in the area too. We’re over the border, though; did you see the sign?” 

Rachel nods and squints at the horizon. “Not policed very well.”

“Not this part, apparently. It _is_ strange. Maybe it’s the new Patriot-Texan alliance? The Patriots already have Mexico?”

Rachel ponders this as Bass offers a hand to help her off her horse. She stares at it like it's poison. Finally, he retracts it, and she steps down on her own.

The rejection momentarily heats Bass’ blood, and he almost snarls at her. But he swallows instead. “How’s your face?” He forces his hands on his binoculars and scans for Miles’ horse.

Rachel gazes down at her shaking hands.

As Bass lowers the binoculars, he notices her agitation and sighs. “I’m not going to hurt you, Rachel.”

“Can we not do this? Let’s just find them.” Rachel is desperate for the distraction (if not buffer) of Miles and Charlie’s presence.

“Fine,” Bass isn’t even sure what they’ve agreed ‘not to do.’ His brain flashes to Connor. His son. Without thinking, he blurts at Rachel, “Charlie’s pissed at you, right?”

“What?” she snaps.

“I don’t mean for the affair. I mean because you left her all those years ago.” Bass lifts the binoculars to the sun to cup his hand in a code only he and Miles know. They’d developed the language as a system of eye blinks over mutual dinner tables growing up. “I mean Rachel, you’re mother of the year compared to me, and Charlie still hates you for it,” he laughs humorlessly.

Rachel’s eyes spin out of focus. “It’s none of your business.”

“I know. It’s just…who am I kidding? Connor won’t want to know me. He’ll probably want to kill me.” Bass pauses ponderously. “What do you think Miles told him about me?” 

An exhausted, exasperated Rachel tries to focus enough to stop this. She demands numbness from her body and is granted it. “Knowing Miles? Probably very, very little. He pretty much divulges on a need to know basis. Do I really need to explain _Miles_ to you?”

Bass sets down the binoculars and mutters, “Maybe.” After all, it was when Rachel came into their lives again that Miles had begun to betray Bass. Part of Bass believes that only Rachel understands what compelled Miles to thrust a gun in his face, since even Miles’ explanation – the dead bomber’s family – seemed so lame. Rachel has almost godlike powers to know anything she puts her mind to. That’s what makes her so dangerous. Bass can’t help but wonder if the current Miles/Rachel alliance suggests that Miles misses power more than he lets on.

In a stronger voice, Bass continues, “I am sorry you and Charlie got dragged into this.” If things go to hell with Connor, he can handle Miles at his side, but these women? They only muddy the situation more.

“I’m sorry we did too. But here we are.” And hell, he doesn’t deserve to hear this, but Rachel’s spent so much time with this tragic, twisted man (sometimes she wonders if she knows him better than anyone, sickening as that is) that it comes out anyway: “You’re wrong about Charlie, Bass. She’s _trying_ to forgive me. Humans are very resilient.”

Bass glances at her and then at the horizon. “Look. There they are. Ah, good. Miles found another horse.”

“You mean stole.”

“Is there a difference?”

“There’s a very naïve part of me that wonders if those differences are the things that could still save us as a species.”

“Haha. Oh, Rachel. I don’t know what’s crazier: the idea that you still have a shred of naiveté or the idea that intrinsic morality that could redeem us.”

“I didn’t say intrinsic.”

Bass shrugs. “I think you’ve been hanging around Miles too much lately. Long after we learned that humans were just animals competing over resources, Miles clung to romantic moral-code nonsense.”

“Well, there is biology, and then, there is society.”

“Rachel, you have no idea how many times I’ve argued _both_ sides of this with Miles. You can go crazy having this conversation.”

“Well, then we’re safe.” 

Bass lifts an eyebrow.

She finishes, “Because we’re both already crazy.”

Bass feels a strange twitch in his facial muscles: a genuine smile. He suddenly remembers why he likes Rachel.

…

As Miles rides up to Rachel, his stomach is in a knot. “You ok?” he asks her earnestly and briefly caresses the bruise on her cheek, reaching across the chasm between their horses.

Rachel sees apology in the blackish eyes, one literally a black eye thanks to Bass, but inadvertently recoils from his touch. 

“Looks like Rachel got in the better punch,” Bass comments on their mutually battered faces. Miles scowls at him.

“We should ride through the night. Can be near Puerto Peñasco by first light, if you all are up for it,” Miles announces and turns his horse southwest.

“I am,” Charlie asserts.

The others follow in silence. Miles feels enormously grateful (as usual) for Charlie. 

It’s hard to tell Mexico apart from Texas in the dark. Judging by the dust that tickles their nostrils and the endless flat, there’s nothing much to see anyway.

By the time they’re starting to inhale briny ocean air, the midnight sky yields to the oranges and pinks of rising sun. At some point, Charlie realizes by its rhythmic drumming that the black abyss next to them isn’t sand anymore – it’s sea. She canters toward it in haste, eager to behold the Pacific for the first time. As the light of morning spreads, she catches sight of something in the waves. At first, it seems to be froth, but no…porpoises? Are porpoises white? 

“What’s that?” she asks pointing. Her three companions exchange troubled glances and begin to dismount.

Bass wades out first to one of the white forms. The frigid water steals his breath away. He gathers the ghostly figure and draws it up to the surface, black hair streaming in between his fingers. A woman. Panic surges. He drops her and grabs another and another. A child, another woman, a man…they are _all_ human bodies. Hundreds of them.

Bass wheels around frantic, flailing, maybe screaming – he can’t tell. This has to be a nightmare. Miles is here and gathers him into his strong, unyielding arms. He’s dragging Bass back to the shore, still holding him from behind like Bass is an unruly toddler.

“Let me go, Miles! Connor! We’ve got to find Connor. What if he’s out here? You have to tell me what he looks like!”

Is Bass sobbing? His cheeks feel wet.

“Stand back, Charlie!” Miles warns, and Bass glimpses terror in Charlie's pinched mouth. “Bass look at me. Look!” Miles is still holding his arms, but has stepped away to force Bass to turn to him.

Bass drags his eyes to the familiar, bottomless browns.

…

_Two Years Before the Blackout_

The two Marines sit primly – it’s impossible to sit any other way in your dress blues – in the emergency exit row of the airplane. Bass hasn’t said a word, except for “Yes Ma’am” to the stewardess when she was required by federal law to elicit a verbal confirmation about his readiness to assist her in the event of an emergency, and then only when Miles prodded him in the side.

Now the perky redhead is back and asking if they would like a beverage.

“Bass?” Miles tries, but Bass just stares out the window at the impenetrable whiteness. “Uh, just two waters, please,” Miles decides for them. 

Bass notices the stewardess giving him a look of pity, no doubt assuming he’s addled by the war instead of by the cruelty of plain old fate. If you gave someone a million guesses they’d never come up with the fact that his whole family was snuffed out by a drunk driver on the way to “Harry Potter” four weeks, five days, and six hours ago.

Once Bass takes a sip of water, he finds he can speak again, though his lips crack from disuse. “You shouldn’t be here,” is what he tells Miles. 

“What?” Miles squints at him.

“You didn’t have to do another tour just because I wanted to. Afghanistan is even worse than Iraq. Everyone says so.”

“We go into combat together, Bass. We promised,” Miles responds shyly, like he hopes no one can hear. It makes Bass wonder if his own voice has carried too far.

“Sorry,” Bass apologizes automatically, because it’s what he does approximately every five to eight minutes. In between apologies, he keeps thanking Miles. Miles tied his fucking shoes for him this morning, because when he bent down to do it, his eyes flooded with tears, rendering him blind. Bass' gratitude is in earnest. He certainly wouldn't be here without Miles.

Miles is apparently so used to Bass apologizing now that he doesn’t even bother to ask for what. He vaguely “shushes” him instead. “Get some rest. We’ll be at base in another couple of hours.”

“I don’t want you to die because of me,” Bass makes an acute effort to whisper this time.

“I’m not going to die. You’ll have my back, and I’ll have yours just like always.” Miles briefly squeezes Bass’ arm and then releases.

… 

But Bass didn’t have Miles’ back that tour. They were separated on a mission, and Miles was taken prisoner. Bass recovered his friend eventually, or what was left of him. As gruff as Miles has always been, he (weirdly) believed the best in people until his internment. Afghanistan took that sweetness from him. Bass never really got Miles back. But, Bass supposes, they were both just fragments by the Blackout. The Blackout was almost good for them. It gave them something to live for again.

Bass is thinking this while staring into the piercing dark eyes. He wipes tears off his own cheeks with both hands, and his voice cracks as he apologizes, confused, “I’m sorry I let them take you, Miles. Is that why you tried to kill me?”

“Bass, what are you…? You need to get a grip, man.” Miles gives Bass shoulders a gentle shake.

“It’s my fault the Taliban got you. I had a death wish after I lost them, Miles. Then, I ruined your life, too.”

“Jesus Christ, Bass. Why would you think that?” 

Charlie has inched closer to the two men, completely flabbergasted by their conversation. Their shorthand is impenetrable to outsiders…perhaps not to her mother, though. Rachel has edged away to stare at the bodies drifting in and out on the current. Her mind appears lost in riddles. Charlie watches Miles pull Bass against his chest, encircling him with powerful arms capable of great cruelty and great kindness. A pang of jealousy unsettles her. They are the oldest of friends – it’s not as if Miles is competing with her for Bass’ affections.

She hears Miles mumble, “It wasn’t your fault. It’s just war, Bass, a war I signed up for.”

Bass pulls back and stares at Miles and then turns to look at Charlie…perhaps beyond her? She can’t tell exactly upon what his cerulean eyes have focused, but he’s walking toward her. She moves into him as if caught by his spell…

…and he shoves her aside so hard, she falls flat on her ass in the sand, a wave soaking her pants. A dead child’s pudgy gray fist brushes her boot and glides back out to sea. Searing humiliation and pain constricts her chest. She can’t breathe – she’s hyperventilating. Suddenly, a large, warm hand pulls her up, and she’s sobbing against a wall of sturdy chest with that home-smell. She never wants to open her eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In a psychotic rage imposed by the goddess Hera, Hercules killed his own wife and children. As penance, he performed twelve labors.


	9. Not Typhon, After All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go. I have to hastily wrap this up before next week when the show returns and craps on my dreams. Ten chapters feels right anyway.

Miles attempts to extract Charlie, who is suctioned onto his damp chest. His wet pants stick to hers like epoxy. He gazes rapidly from Charlie to Rachel – who looks utterly gone, _great_ – to Bass who is barreling through the sand at a wild gait toward the dilapidated skyscrapers of the city. When did Miles become the single father of three? He’s shit at even taking care of himself. For instance, he’d love a drink right about now.

 “Charlie, I’ve gotta go after him. Charlie!” 

Her cheeks still burning, Charlie forces herself to look up at her uncle. The urgent brown eyes are apologetic, not _I told you so_. Miles is too impatient and has made far too many mistakes himself to be cruel about her attachment to Bass. She releases Miles’ wiry arms and nods when he asks her to:

“Watch your mom.”

Charlie squeezes Rachel’s sagging shoulder, but her mother just mumbles to herself, fixated on those eerie bodies being pulled away by the tide.

Finally, Charlie tries, “Do you think it was the nanites?”

“Ice has sufficed. The world did not end in fire.” Rachel believes she is carefully explaining that the nanites usually burn, and this appears to be something else – some biological weapon? – while she simultaneously muses on the old Robert Frost poem she and her father used to recite together, laughing a little at the randomness of human memory. But something is wrong with Charlie…She’s staring aghast at Rachel.

Of course, all Charlie has heard is a garbled poem and a cackle. _Now Mom has completely lost it._

“Come on, Mom. We have to go.” Charlie’s eyes dart after Miles, who has just rendezvoused with Bass. Oddly, two figures are approaching them, one no bigger than a toddler. Charlie collects the reigns of all four horses, who have been wandering about, and gives her mother a gentle prod into motion.

When Miles reaches Bass, a child, broken free from its mother, bolts toward them with a jubilant smile splashed across its rosy face. To Miles’ utter horror, Bass draws his sword and makes to lunge at it. 

_Connor’s dead. Miles hid him, and then he died. Maybe Miles killed everyone here to make sure I couldn’t get to him,_ Bass ponders, as he stumbles through the sand, his head down. When he raises his chin at last, he sees a Patriot charging him, gun aloft. Bass hurls himself forward with his sword brandished but is tackled and pinned. Wrestling with the Patriot – _no,_ _Miles_ – he manages to sink a vicious cut into Miles’ left bicep. 

He hears Miles yell, “Run away! Get away from here!” and Bass is about to raise his hilt to bash Miles in the hideous, betraying face, when he looks up… 

…and sees a child and its mother scampering away. Sword butt still raised for the blow, he gazes down at Miles who has his eyes squeezed shut, his Adam’s apple moving in a mighty swallow.

The sword went nearly to the bone, and Miles is paralyzed by pain. He wills himself to speak, but it sounds like a sob: “Bass, it’s me!” Hell, maybe Bass _knows_ it’s Miles, and he’s finally decided it’s time for payback. Miles closes his eyes and waits for his fate. He might even be grateful it’s Bass who'll finish him; this could be justice, karma.

But the death blow doesn’t come.

Bass collapses in the sand, his shoulders heaving. After a few moments, Bass reaches over and puts a hand on Miles’ chest, sticky with brine and sweat and sand. He feels Miles’ warm hand slide over his, interlocking fingers.

Miles aches with bottomless sadness. How did he and Bass get so fucked up? _Jesus, my arm._ Miles doesn’t even want to look. He’s so tired of being fucking wounded all the time. He can’t bear to go through the cycle again of not being able to swing a sword, infection, gradual decline.

“Miles! My God! What did you _do_ , Bass?” Miles hears Charlie shriek, but he’s so emotionally spent and in so much pain that he just holds Bass' hand harder and listens to his best friend sob.

Finally, Miles rolls his head in the sand toward Bass and whispers, “Hey, buddy. You’ve got to get a grip. It looks like some people are still alive in the city. If we’re going to go to Connor’s, you’ve got to pull it together. Connor is an extremely gentle man.”

Bass looks at Miles, startled, his blue eyes streaming. “He’s…gentle? But what will I say?” he gasps. “Hi Connor, I’m your psychotic dad? I just tried to kill a kid outside your front door…Nice to meet you?”

Miles squeezes Bass’ hand one more time and lets go, trying to sit up, surprised to find himself in Rachel’s arms. She’s tying off his dripping wound with careful fingers, though her eyes remain glassy as the ocean.

Miles winces and explains to Bass, “It doesn’t matter what you say to him, Bass. Connor can’t hear. He’s deaf.”

“Deaf? But…Did something terrible happen to him?”

“No, nothing happened to him. It just runs in Emma’s family.” Miles allows Rachel to help him up, but Bass remains on all fours in the sand, his jaw hanging open.

…

As they ride through the once-great coastal city, Charlie gapes at the enormous towers extending to the sky. It’s a wonder they can stand up. The streets are almost entirely deserted except for the occasional people, who dart in and out of shadows. 

Charlie watches as Miles squints at her mother and murmurs, “Why are all these people… _white_?”

Rachel continues along unresponsively.

Finally, Miles halts them with a hand. Bass realizes that not only does Miles know his son, but he knows his son _here_ in Puerto Peñasco, otherwise Miles wouldn’t have been able to make it to the specific house without a map. Miles has an excellent sense of direction. If he’s been somewhere once, he’ll find it again.

Miles points silently, and they all dismount. An auburn, curly-haired man sits on stairs leading up to a modest adobe abode, clutching a tan baby, who couldn’t be more than six months old, with wispy black hair. A Mexican woman is bent over in front of them, hoeing in her garden, humming to herself.

“Me first,” Miles warns the others. “Hola, Isela. ¿Cómo estás?” he calls to the woman.

Charlie is immediately taken by her beauty. She has a warm, round face and the most breathtakingly glossy hair; it looks like it’s been shined with polish.

“Miles! What on earth are you doing here? Your arm! Your eye! ¡Dios Mío!”

“I’m fine. I had a little run in…” Miles is cut off as the woman (Isela), followed by the man and his baby, encircle him in a group hug. Miles burns red as a firecracker.

Charlie senses Bass inching backward and reaches instinctively for his hand. He doesn’t exactly hold hers back, but he doesn’t shake her off either, at least not right away.

Miles asks the family as they pull away from him, “What happened here? Down by the water. All the bodies – we worried you’d died.” 

Isela explains, “Men in sandy uniforms came to town about a year ago. Since then, every now and then, they round up a new group of people, always Mexicanos, never Americans. We don’t know where they go – some say to testing centers. But the soldiers dump the bodies by the truckload into the sea when they’re finished with them.”

“Jesus! We’ve got to get you out of here.” Miles clutches his wound in alarm.

Isela shakes her head. “No, you don’t understand. Earlier this morning all the men in uniforms, they suddenly burst into flames! Burnt to a crisp. I swear! I can show you their bodies. There’s almost nothing left.”

Miles swallows. “You don’t need to. It’s not the first time I’ve seen that.”

“Miles, who is this with you?” Isela asks, gesturing now at the rest of his party.

Bass lets go of Charlie and edges even closer to his mare, gazing almost shyly at Connor. Connor has Emma’s cheek bones and Bass' bright blue eyes. The man is a perfect hybrid of them, in fact. And the baby…

Nervous, Miles stalls, “More importantly, who’s this?” He points at the little girl, and she squeaks and swallows his finger in her chubby first. Miles is taken aback but can’t extract his digit from her enthusiastic grip. 

“Clara,” Isela grins.

“Clara,” Bass whispers to himself. He’s a…a grandfather.

Miles finally turns, still without use of his finger, and points with his other hand at Charlie, “My niece,” then at Rachel, “My si-” 

“His girlfriend,” Rachel interjects, and Miles feels his cheeks aflame again. He stares at Rachel’s hand as she shakes Isela’s and Connor’s in turn and then squeezes little Clara’s free hand.

Finally, Bass steps forward and says, “I’m just a friend.” He waves briefly – doesn’t offer a hand. 

“Well, welcome friends. You must have traveled far. Would you like something to eat?” Isela asks.

“Actually, we have to move on,” Bass announces, his voice hoarse. Miles starts and finally disentangles from the baby to look at him. “Miles just wanted to make sure his old friend Emma’s son was okay,” Bass finishes. 

Isela nods with a glint of sadness in her black eyes, “Yes. We were very sorry to hear that she passed. So common to die of disease in the Black. Connor took it very hard. But Clara’s birth has brought him new joy.”

Connor smiles, looking a bit more tired, and bounces his daughter in his arms. Charlie is impressed by Connor’s serene countenance and swears, though he hasn’t said a word, that he’s the kindest man she’s ever met. He reminds her of her father. 

Bass is now utterly transfixed by Clara. Even when his eyes begin to water, he can’t blink.

Miles reads pain off Bass’ face and explains to Isela and Connor, “My friend lost a baby many years ago.” 

Connor makes a quick sign to Isela, which she reads and translates to Bass: “Connor wants to know if you’d like to hold Clara, sir?” 

Bass’ mouth opens. He looks at Miles, who sends him an infinitesimal nod. 

Bass then extends his arms and in a moment is laden by the pudgy weight of baby. Clara is very friendly and rocks and squeaks in his arms, reaching forward to pat his scratchy cheeks. 

“She likes you!” Isela beams, hands on hips. Connor also smiles at Bass. He has his father's dimples.

Bass’ emotions fly in a million different directions and seem to get stuck on _choke_. He gasps for breath and releases Clara back into her mother’s arms. Just as he is about to remount his horse, he feels light pressure on his arm.

It’s Connor. Everyone else appears to be distracted saying goodbye to the baby. Though it is not entirely easy to understand Connor, Bass makes out, “Don’t worry, Sebastian. I am happy.”

Bass can’t think of a thing in the world to say to this man, his son, who is nothing like him: gentle, kind, happy despite the world burning all around him. And then Connor is walking away.

…

Bass leads the pack northward to Texas until Miles rides up next to him.

“So…how did it feel to hold your granddaughter?”

Bass tries to drag his eyes away from the horizon, and when he finally pries them loose, they are leaking again.

Miles draws in close enough to put a hand – the one attached to his nasty wound – on Bass’ neck. “You did good,” Miles praises, and Bass glances at him sidelong.

Without thinking, Bass answers, “You know, Miles…I don’t even know you anymore.”

Miles mumbles, “Yeah. Kids'll change you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Typhon was the "Father of All Monsters"


	10. Nostos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have been reading, kudosing, and commenting. Your feedback has been much appreciated. I hope you enjoy the conclusion. Happy New Year!

Darkness invites introspection in the foursome’s bivouac 30 miles outside of Willoughby. No one has spoken for at least an hour.

Charlie sharpens her knife just as Miles taught her and tests its edge on her fingertip, imprinting there a scarlet smile. It reminds her of "Sleeping Beauty," a Disney movie so hazy in her memory, she recalls only one scene – could even be making that up. “I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream…” The romantic who came up with that crap notion of love had certainly never met her family. There is Miles and her mother, who’ve proven that everything Charlie wanted to believe about marriage and the bond between parents was a lie…Look at them, Miles poking at the fire, but his eyes clamped on Rachel like she’s his leaky oxygen supply. Charlie’s not even really mad at them anymore. And the other tragic verse of the Matheson love song: Charlie herself lost in Sebastian Monroe. Bass is splayed on his bedroll, apparently counting stars. Insane and careless as her feelings for him are, they're her own. She’ll let them go if and when she’s ready.

Bass scrapes his hand over his face, imagining that he can still smell and feel Clara’s talcum-tinged, silken skin or the way her thigh squished when he squeezed. Bass feels old; he feels newborn. Everything is clear; nothing makes sense. And so he is paralyzed.

The thing is, Connor’s happy family is hardly unique. Bass has spent so much of his life aching, raging over his losses, but he _knows_ family. Family was his mother, tucking a blanket under his chin with a “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite” (even when he was well into his twenties back from a damn tour in Iraq). It was his sisters smacking his cheeks so hard in their epic pillow fights that he saw stars. And really, it has always been Miles, who carried Bass in combat, took a gun out of his hand when he meant to die, held his shattered pieces together when Shelly and the baby passed. Except with Miles there is no line between beautiful and ugly – it’s all mixed up all the time. Despite each other's failures, they chose each other over and over; and given the chance, right now, Bass would choose Miles again. There’s just a nagging part of him that wonders if it’s mutual.

Miles crouches suddenly before Bass and says, “Need to have a word with Rachel. Look after Charlie…don’t-” 

“Don’t worry, Miles.”

Miles squints at him but guides Rachel away.

Bass sits up and looks at Charlie, brittlely scraping her knife on a whetting stone. It dawns on him that she’s been doing that for an hour. “If you want to have any blade left, you’d better stop that,” he comments.

She releases the blade point down into the dirt with a touch of sass.

Bass purses his lips against a grin. Charlie is a livewire. “Hey, can I ask you something? It’s about Miles.”

She’s curious, too, like her mother, so she nods her head probably more eagerly than she intended. 

“You’ve spent a lot of time with him. I mean, you’re more important to him than anything…”

“My mom _is_ -” she objects automatically without real conviction.

“Come on. He loves Rachel. But he thinks of you as a daughter. Clearly.”

Charlie swallows. _What is Bass getting at?_

Bass waits, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding as entirely pathetic as he feels for wondering it. “Do you think he could forgive me?”

One corner of Charlie’s mouth rises. This is the verse of the Matheson love song she forgot, perhaps the most intriguing one of all: Miles and Bass. Charlie knows she is privileged around Miles’ raw emotions – that he lets her in more than the others. It bestows her with an odd sense of power and responsibility.

She’s not exactly sure what she’s going to tell Bass, but clarity eventually punches through the stream of consciousness: “Once outside of Noblesville, when we were trying to get Danny off your stupid train, Miles told me he couldn’t be the uncle I knew as a kid, because he had to kill his best friend. I think…I know what it’s like to love a brother. And you two are pretty lucky you haven’t lost each other given everything that's happened. Miles loves you, Bass. He cried when he thought you were dead. I mean, it wasn’t the first time I’ve seen him cry, but it was different. It was like part of him died, too.” 

Bass has to look past her to keep his lips under control. “I didn’t know.”

“Really, after this trip, how could you not? He trusted you enough to bring me and mom along, didn’t he?”

“I’m a defective person, Charlie.”

“Well, he loves you anyway. Other people care about you, too.” Charlie drops her eyes to her lap and her cheeks sting.

“About that, Charlie…You’re a good person. You impress me – actually from the moment I met you in Philadelphia, you impressed me. And that’s why I won’t be touching you again. I’m sorry I ever did. You’re young, and you haven’t been through the moral cesspool we have. You can do so much better than me.”

Charlie can’t look at him. Her chest feels cracked open and oozing.

Bass realizes that this is a real disappointment to her, so he thinks quickly. “Hey, I’ve got something you might like it. Been holding onto it for too long.”

He extracts something from his back pocket that looks to Charlie like a gold and purple locket.

“What is it?” she asks, receiving it.

“A Purple Heart. The military used to give it to service people who were wounded or killed. This one belongs to your uncle. I kept it when he left the Militia.”

“Why give it to me? Why not give it back to him?”

“Oh, it doesn’t mean anything to him. But to me it meant, well, seeing him again when I thought he was dead.” It was for Miles' wounds in Afghanistan - the ones Bass still feels responsible for. It's not actually true that the medal is meaningless to Miles; it simply reminds him of the pain and humiliation of what the Taliban did to him when he was their prisoner.

“So it reminds you of family.”

“Sure." And that's why Charlie is too good for him. "It’s yours now.”

“Thanks.”

…

Miles leads Rachel out of earshot from the camp and turns to look into her eyes. Even in the dark they appear a bit unfocused. Well, crazy or not, he needs to address the g-word. It’s almost all he’s been thinking about since they left Connor’s.

“Rachel, I-”

But she interrupts, her brain whirring about Isela’s strange tale, as it has been for days. “Do you think that Aaron has been following you, you know, like he did at the trainyard? Or…this might sound crazy, but-”

“Crazier than what you just said?”

“Do you think the nanites are at war with the Patriots?”

“No clue, Rachel. And frankly, right now, it’s hard for me to really give a damn.”

“You don’t care? But you were the one who wanted a war against the Patriots!”

She’s right. As soon as they’re back in Willoughby, he’s going to have to care. It always falls to him to figure things out. He can’t afford fatigue. 

“Well, I suppose if they’re at war, then-” 

“Then we’ll stay out of it. _You’ll_ stay out of it.” 

“I…wait, what?”

“For Charlie and for me. Even for Bass. You’ve got your hands full with us.” 

Miles looks at her sideways. “I’m not good at standing by when people are dying, Rachel. It’s not in my nature.” 

“Yes, you’re very noble. And very bad at loving people. But you can’t use the excuse of your dead mother or your shitty father anymore. Because you’re old enough to have learned a thing or two about love. So what do you have to say for yourself?”

Miles puts his hands on his hips and squints. “That…I love you. And it’s about time you called yourself my girlfriend.”

Rachel's face begins to melt into smile. “And no more war.”

“You might have to tie me down.”

“That doesn’t sound entirely unappealing,” she grins fully.

Miles pulls her into him with both arms and asks seriously, “Are you ok, Rachel? I don’t always know what to do to help you.”

“This works.” She rests her cheek against the heat of his chest and sighs. 

Miles strokes and kisses her hair. “Well, this I can do.”

…

Gene isn’t where they left him, so Miles and Bass insist they scout Willoughby from a distance using Bass’ ever-handy binoculars. 

Craning her neck, Charlie asks Bass, “What do you see?”

He hands her the binoculars and shrugs at Miles.

The two circles reveal children playing, a bustling marketplace, a town as dull and contented as ever. Not a single uniformed soldier mars the streets. Then Charlie gasps, “The gates are open!”

“Maybe Aaron defeated the Patriots?” Miles suggests, scratching his stubble.

“Well, I am going home to find Dad,” Rachel asserts.

They should be surprised to find Gene rocking on his front porch, drinking from a cracked mug, but by the time they’ve traversed the length of town – which could be a panoramic Norman Rockwell painting – Gene’s domestic bliss appears perfectly congruent.

“Charlie! Rachel!” Gene exclaims with profound relief, embracing them at once and kissing the blonde heads in turn. He draws back and marvels, “You two smell like the sea!” He nods a bit begrudgingly at Miles and Bass.

“Gene, what the hell went on here? Where’s Aaron?” Miles asks.

“Let me make you all a cup of tea. This is a bedtime story for the ages, believe me. You’ll want to be sitting down." 

Gene is not exaggerating. Around the kitchen stable, floral steam wetting their eyebrows, the dusty four sit with their mouths hanging open as Gene orates: 

“Believe it or not, Aaron and Cynthia are in Washington, D.C. Things happened so fast once you were gone – I’m not even sure I fully understand it. Apparently, the nanites decided that human immorality had reached the tipping point and decided to do some, shall we say, cleansing. We don’t know how far and wide the death tide reached, but any people who were harming others began going up in flames.”

“It reached to Mexico, at least. The nanites killed Patriots in Puerto Peñasco,” Rachel confirms. 

“So all over then,” Gene nods. “Aaron must have talked some sense into the nanites or made some kind of truce with them in Oklahoma, because he sent me a message…and by sent, I mean a nanite child came to speak to me. I know it sounds wild, but…” 

Gene glances around the table, but they all just continue to stare at him. Charlie takes a sip of her tea.

“Those Patriots who were left brought Aaron and Cynthia to D.C. to be, I don’t know, gods? Kings? Aaron was the only one with any kind of link to the nanites, who could stop the killing. Apparently, and this is just hearsay, Aaron delivered a message from the nanites that if humans didn’t start to work together, they’d be completely wiped out.” 

“So Aaron is God and the nanites are his lightning bolt of justice?” Miles scoffs.

“I don’t think so, no. It seems more like the nanites have evolved into their own life forms, and they’re willing to share space with us if we behave. Aaron is more like a respected mouthpiece. That’s my take anyway.”

“Okay then. Nobody piss off the nanites,” Miles grumbles.

Rachel finally closes her dry mouth and slides her hand into Miles’ under the table. He cocks his head at her and takes it.

“So what do we do now?” Bass asks, feeling suddenly vacated by the infinity of possibilities.

“Live life. Peacefully. That’s what Willoughby’s doing,” Gene answers.

“Well Dad, do you still need help in your medical practice?” Rachel asks.

“Of course.”

Charlie stares at her pale tea, giddy, almost light-headed at the strange news. Half-kidding, she proclaims, “I have no useful skills to offer peaceful society. Aaron was a terrible teacher. I didn’t learn anything.”

Bass snorts his tea so hard that he starts choking, and Rachel pounds him on the back with her free hand.

Miles quirks an eyebrow. “Join the club, Charlie. Although, I make decent moonshine-” 

Rachel shoots him a look.

“But I’m not going to do that?”

She nods.

Bass shrugs and says, “We can hunt and trap like we did in the early days of the Blackout, man. Charlie, your tracking skills seem to have somewhat improved since I first ran into you in New Vegas.”

“My tracking skills are superior to yours.”

“Nope.”

Charlie scowls but is intrigued by idea of a family business with Miles and Bass. “What would we call ourselves?”

“Alvin and the Chipmunks?” Bass tries, and Miles flashes him a disgusted look. “Famous trios are hard,” Bass puts up his hands in apology.

Rachel smirks, “The Wilson Phillips?” 

“Fat years or not?” is Bass’ pertinent follow-up question.

“I have no idea what you guys are talking about.” Charlie slumps down onto her elbows. 

Miles’ brown eyes light up. “The Three Musketeers. They’re swashbucklers, Charlie,” he explains to her. 

“Miles, you’re a genius. Let me love you!” Bass proclaims, staggering over to Miles’ chair with his arms out, but he is rebuffed by his friend’s familiar grimace and folded arms. 

“If you sit in my lap, I’ll throw you out the window.”

“Do the Three Musketeers have a slogan?” Charlie interrupts.

“Of course they do!” Bass draws one of his swords and holds it over the table. Charlie gets excited and places hers on top of his. 

“Come on Miles, don’t be an Eeyore,” Bass urges. 

Miles sighs and clinks his on top of Charlie’s.

Bass prods Miles, “All for one…” 

“And one for all,” Miles shakes his head. “This family business is already an embarrassment. I miss war. Kidding, Rache.”

Rachel rolls her eyes and walks to the window. “Oh look, there’s a herd of mule deer. Why don’t the Three Musketeers go outside and practice?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Nostos is the Greek word for return home, homecoming, or welcome home...something like that. I don't actually know Greek! Essentially _The Odyssey_ is an entire story about Odysseus's nostos. He does reunite with his wife and son, if you’re wondering.


End file.
